And the Clock Keeps Ticking
by Nherizu
Summary: Harry Potter knows three things. One, Voldemort can still cause chaos even after his death. Two, Draco Malfoy is one of the last two missing survivors. Three, Harry's creepy dreams every night are the only key to finding Malfoy. And yet ... maybe Harry shouldn't be so sure, for the truth about Malfoy is not what he thinks it is.
1. One

**Title: **And the Clock Keeps Ticking

**Author:** Nherizu

**Warnings/Content Notes:** minor character death—despite whatever you may find later in the story, I _really_ mean minor, so don't worry *winks*. Add a few minor OCs, too, and repeated use of a strong potion (but only for pain relief).

**A/N:** Thank you so much to my brilliant beta and first readers, as well as my lovely britpicker and cheerleaders (**Pionie**, **Eyms13**, **Annalisemarie99**, **Finite Farfalla** and **Dannyfranx**) for their help in polishing this story to be more presentable. Also thank you so much to **Vaysh** for the prompt. Last but not least, I used **Amor Fati**'s stock photo for the cover image.

* * *

**And the Clock Keeps Ticking**

**One**

Harry opened his eyes slowly. He tried to move his fingers against the duvet, clenching them into fists to control the shaking in his limbs. He reminded himself to breathe, the ache at the back of his head growing more noticeable. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed blindly over the sheets and duvet, knowing he must have tossed his glasses off carelessly on the bed before falling asleep like usual.

"Fuck." He grimaced as even the slightest of movement caused his stomach to coil with nausea. Putting his glasses on, he waited until his vision stopped spinning before he shoved apart the curtains surrounding his bed. He quickly shielded his eyes from the blinding sun slipping inside from the wide, open window across his bedroom. ". . . Kreacher," he whispered, not even bothering to turn when he heard the loud _pop_ beside him. "The window—don't open the bloody_ curtains_. I must have told you millions times already, haven't I? If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to kill me."

"Kreacher is old, Master, but twenty three times are far from millions," said Kreacher, and Harry could almost hear the smirk that accompanied his words. "Young wizards nowadays sleep until noon," Kreacher continued muttering lowly under his breath. Harry clenched his jaw angrily.

"Whatever. Bring me that potion," he hissed as another pain shot through his head. "_Quick_."

"Yes, Master," said Kreacher before he Disapparated. When he came back, Harry was sitting on the edge of his bed, rubbing a hand over his face. He quickly took the vial from Kreacher's hand and downed the contents. He counted to thirty until relief washed over his head and down his spine. He sighed contently.

"Thanks."

"Does Master prefer to have his lunch in bed?" asked Kreacher. His tiny, bloodshot eyes narrowed expectantly while he waited for Harry's answer.

"No proper wizard would still be in bed at this hour, would he?" Harry said grudgingly, catching the corners of Kreacher's lips curl up slightly. "Fine, I'll be downstairs in ten minutes."

Kreacher Disapparated without an answer, but Harry knew his lunch would be ready in exactly ten minutes. Standing up, he went to the bathroom to wash and brush his teeth. As he went through the routine, his mind wandered, now that the headache had left him. He was sure something different was there, in his dream today. Usually he woke up with only a headache and a vague feeling of nausea, but today he was shaking like a five-year-old watching a horror film. But the random patterns of waves and spirals and colourful lines were still bemusing. Harry wondered if he was actually remembering any of his dreams at all, or if the recollections were only the result of a disoriented mind.

The first time Harry started having those dreams was nearly half a year ago. He had dismissed it, thinking that he was only suffering the side effects of the stress he went through at the time. Considering how the case could affect the whole Wizarding population, it was only natural that Harry felt under pressure. Being an official Auror for only two months before facing that big a case would unsettle anyone . . . not to mention his own personal connections to it. Yet as time went on, he couldn't shake his suspicion any longer. He still had the dreams, and judging from the increasing frequency from once every other week to almost every day, he knew that either he really was barmy, or the dreams had a meaning. Now if only he could make out what he was actually seeing in his sleep . . .

Running his fingers through his hair in a vain attempt to fix it, Harry stared back at his reflection in the mirror. The dark circles under his eyes were so visible that Harry was certain Hermione would fuss over him later. Perhaps it would be wise to tell her about the side effects of his dreams, or be honest with her that he couldn't sleep without falling into those dreams lately. Then again, perhaps she would scold him instead for taking a very strong potion on a daily basis. And that reminded him—he had to go to Knockturn Alley soon to restock his supply. Hermione's wrath was the least of his concern, when he was facing the unpleasant fact that he could barely control his body each time he woke up. It felt as if he had been apart from his body the whole night and forgotten how to use it.

Sighing, Harry shook his head. He walked out his bathroom door, snatching his Auror robes from on top of the sink on the way. He was going barmy indeed, thinking something as impossible as leaving his own body like that. But again, he was Harry Potter, and if something impossible _could_ happen, it was guaranteed he would be the one to experience it. Suppressing a groan, he pushed all troubling thoughts to the back of his mind and descended the stairs.

The aroma of coffee greeted him as soon as he stepped into the kitchen. Hovering over the small table, Harry buttoned up his robes while peeking at the headline of _Daily Prophet_, beside which a full plate of roast chicken and buttered bread sat. Harry took a deep breath, trying to ignore the sinking feeling upon seeing the photograph. Hermione would drill him with the information later, so he wouldn't be able to escape from it even if he tried. With that thought, he resigned himself, taking a seat and preparing to read the news. He just hoped he still could maintain his appetite while doing so.

**. .**

**. .**

"This and this," said Ron as he unceremoniously dropped two scrolls of battered parchment onto Harry's desk. "You know that bloke in Devon? He finally came to us this morning. I know you were dead tired from your stakeout last night, but you're lucky you didn't have the early shift. He was a nightmare!"

Harry sighed, rubbing his cheek with a hand. "I need strong coffee," he said.

"No luck there, mate. Williamson drank the last of it."

"Tea then. A cup of tea will be nice," said Harry, already unrolling one of the scrolls. "Why does it look like someone has puked on this?" He scrunched up his nose at the revolting smell and the yellowish stains.

"Actually," said Ron, "that Lorellei bloke puked on it after we fed him the Veritaserum. Apparently he's allergic to it."

"Remind me again why we can't spell this parchment clean." Harry rolled his eyes. It wasn't the first time something nasty ruined their investigation files, depending on where they collected them. Sometimes it was slime, mud or even blood. But Robards insisted that no magical influence was allowed to touch the parchment, unless it was strictly necessary. Until now Harry thought the reason was a bit forced, but Hermione had agreed with Robards. She had said that finding someone's magical signature in the case of fake reports would be much faster without other people's magical signatures in the mix. And who was Harry to deny that logic?

Sighing, Harry continued to skim over the report, vaguely aware when Ron ordered a Trainee Auror, a quick-thinking girl who nevertheless wouldn't say 'boo' to a goose, to bring them tea. When Harry reached the last sentence on the parchment, he groaned. "This is not helping."

"Well, he couldn't exactly digest the Veritaserum, so of course he could still lie. What do you expect?"Ron snorted. Harry could hear Hermione's voice echo in his head, reminding Ron that Veritaserum was not supposed to be digested, because the magical quality in it would go straight to their veins before it could reach the alimentary canal, or something along those lines. Ron seemed to have the same mental image, too, for he quickly made a face.

"Anyway." Ron coughed. "I think Hermione wants to see you."

"Oh," said Harry, deflating a bit despite already expecting it. "Must be about the _Daily Prophet_."

"They never get tired of bringing that one up, don't they?"

"Sadly, no."

Ron's eyes softened a little. "But I think Hermione has other things to say."

"Yeah," Harry said, nodding in defeat. "Yeah, I'll meet her. She's in her office?"

"The one and only." Ron snorted. "I'm starting to think that she thinks of it as her home."

Harry gave him a sympathetic look, fully aware that Ron felt neglected even after he and Hermione had gotten their own flat. But Harry was in too terrible of a mood to listen to Ron's sulks, so he quickly rose and strode to the door. "Sorry, Ron, tell Rosemary I'm sorry for not waiting for the tea."

He was already out of the door when he heard Ron mutter, "I thought her name was Jasmine?"

Shaking his head, Harry briskly made his way to the lift, and squeezed himself into the already crowded car. As soon as he reached Level One, he freed himself from the collection of busy officials, mentally rolling his eyes at how pretentious they all were. Perhaps working on Level One made them that way, and it reminded him of Percy. Silently he thanked Hermione for still being his beloved Hermione, not a stuck-up important Ministry worker like Umbridge. He shuddered at the thought.

Before he realised, he was already in front of the door that led to Junior Assistant to the Minister for Magic office. Slipping inside, it only took him a split second before he spotted Hermione's door in between the other doors, with expensive-looking and neatly organized work cubicles stretched before them. He knocked three times, but didn't bother to wait for an answer.

"Harry, it's good to see you." Hermione beamed, looking up from the thick tome in her hands while Harry claimed a seat across her desk. But when Harry only shrugged half-heartedly in response, she frowned. "You look awful."

"Aw, thanks."

"Oh, shut up, you know what I mean." She closed the tome and entwined her fingers on top of the desk. "Did you get any sleep at all?"

"Yeah, I always sleep like the dead. And Kreacher keeps on punishing me for not waking up." At Hermione's disapproving look, Harry wanted to bite his tongue for saying that last bit. To Harry's relief, though, she didn't pursue the House Elf matter further.

"It's the dreams, isn't it? That's why you're always tired?" she asked. "Do you get them more frequently now?"

Sometimes Harry didn't know whether he should be thankful or resentful for Hermione's sharpness. "Every bloody night. I've tried taking Dreamless Sleep and your other suggestions to calm myself before sleeping, but they didn't work."

Hermione bit her lip, looking thoughtful. "Actually, Harry, there's one more thing you haven't tried."

Harry groaned. "If you're telling me to meditate or empty my mind, I can't, Hermione. There's a good reason why I suck at Occlumency."

"And there's a good reason why I'm your best friend." Hermione rolled her eyes. "I'm not suggesting you to meditate. I'm suggesting that you should do some _research_."

"Er," said Harry. "Doesn't being my best friend tell you that I suck at researching, too?"

"Of course I know that. Honestly." Hermione huffed impatiently. She swivelled on her chair, facing the bookshelf on the right. She took no time to haul a leather-bound book that looked familiar, but somehow, Harry couldn't quite put his finger on where he had seen it before. "That's why _I_ searched for this book," she said, pushing it towards Harry across the desk. When Harry merely raised an eyebrow, Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Harry."

"Fine," he said with a scowl, accepting the book. It looked a bit old, and the leather was soft to the touch. Upon reading the title, however, he announced in disbelief, "You're kidding me."

Hermione shrugged. "I wish I were. But Harry, that's the only thing we haven't tried yet. Unless . . ."

"Unless?"

"Unless you think the dream has connections to our case," said Hermione softly. Harry drummed his forefinger on his thigh, fighting the urge to grit his teeth as the memories of the dreams he had years ago came over him.

"No," he said, "he's dead, he can't be inside me again."

"He might be dead, but . . ."

". . . his magic isn't," Harry finished for her. Hermione nodded, her lower lip trapped between her teeth. Harry sighed. "It's different, Hermione. I know him, I know his magic. This is—" he paused, striving to find the right word, but in the end he just shrugged, "—different."

Hermione looked worried, but she didn't argue. "The book then."

"_The Dream Oracle_, Hermione?" Harry teased, grateful for the chance to lighten the atmosphere. "And here I thought you hated Divination."

"I don't hate it. I just think it's unreliable. And most Seers are—"

"—frauds."

"Yes," said Hermione.

"I don't think I have a good opinion of prophecies either," said Harry dryly. "But if there's something we could learn from the last war, it's that prophecies can be a big deal."

"Even change the world," Hermione agreed. "Look, Harry, I'm sceptical about the book's pertinence, and I hate to say this, but the only books I haven't read that talk about dreams are Divination books. The others are not helpful for your condition, so . . . for now we have no choice." Hermione swallowed, seemingly in pain for even admitting that. "But I promise I'll try to look it up again. There's this new bookshop I haven't—"

"Hermione," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "Calm down, I never said I wouldn't read it."

Hermione took Harry's hand. "We'll sort it out."

"Yeah."

"And that brings us to another matter," said Hermione, her expression turning grim. She rummaged inside her drawer and fished out some pieces of parchment, held together with a black, Muggle paperclip. "I was able to get this from the Unspeakables. I'm sure your Head Auror will inform you soon, but I think you would want to know first what this means, Harry."

Nodding in resignation, Harry took it from her and shuffled the pages. He skimmed all the contents. "Two more ex-Death Eaters this time?"

"The _Prophet _only knows about one, but the Unspeakables found another one this morning."

"And they both died with their left arms burnt . . ."

". . . just like the other ex-Death Eaters," confirmed Hermione. Closing his eyes in defeat, Harry crumpled the edge of the parchment, while Hermione continued, "I think it's nearly ended, Harry."

"How many more?" asked Harry, refusing to open his eyes.

"Two. If the list we found half a year ago is right."

Finally Harry opened his eyes, reading the last piece of parchment and sensing weariness in his bones as he threaded all the alphabets together into names.

"It's Thorfinn Rowle. We have information that he's currently in South America," said Hermione. She stared at Harry with a pained expression, her forehead creased a little. "We can still maybe—do something. But as for—"

"Do something, Hermione?" Harry snapped, slamming the parchment down on the desk. "How? We couldn't fucking do anything all this time, and they were Death Eaters. They knew what they'd get for following a madman. They got what was coming to them."

"Harry," said Hermione, her expression distorted into displeasure. "Tell me you don't actually mean that."

"Well, I do," Harry said through clenched teeth. "I don't care if Rowle's dead. He was there that night, Hermione, he was there when Dumbledore died!"

"Harry," she said again, sounding impatient. "I understand that he doesn't deserve our help, but I've told you millions of times, if we can capture him, we can solve the mystery! Think about how useful it would be for future cases! And I thought everything about Dumbledore's death's been cleared—"

"I don't care," shouted Harry. "It doesn't change the fact that he was still a Death Eater, not a spy, not an _innocent_. I don't care about the mystery, it'll end once they're all dead anyway!"

Hermione didn't answer, only pinning him with that 'look' again, the one that was borderline between pity and knowing, the one she always wore these past few years whenever she thought Harry was being absurd. But Harry was beyond angry. He was furious, disappointed and frustrated, because he didn't go that far three and a half years ago only to let this happen. He didn't do all of that only to lose again to Voldemort just because of those people's stupidity for having served him, and he—

"Draco Malfoy's still missing," said Hermione quietly, yet effectively cutting into Harry's livid thoughts. "You know what that means. But we still have time, Harry."

Harry swallowed the lump in his throat, looking away from her, shaking in rage. Eventually he let his shoulders sag, knowing that however he hated it, Hermione was right. She always was. "Fine," he said at last, picking up the wrinkled parchment and the book. "I'll see what I can do."

"Good." Hermione nodded, her lips thinned into a wan smile. But right before he headed out of her office, she called to him again. "You'll be with us this weekend, won't you?"

Glancing slightly over his shoulder, Harry smiled. "I'll stay over at the weekend," he said as he slipped outside.

**. .**

**. .**

Harry walked alone, everything dark around him. He squinted, trying to see if there was any light at all, until a strong wind stopped him in his tracks. He tried to call out—something, just so that the silence wouldn't be so deafening, but his voice was whipped away by the wind. No matter how loudly he yelled, nothing came out past his mouth. And then he felt someone move. He whirled around to face whoever it was, a wand appearing in his hand.

_Who are you? _he asked. _Who are you and what am I doing here?_

The person's silhouette was clear despite the darkness. It was a man, tall and lean, and he stretched out a hand to Harry. He wanted something. Harry was about to ask again even though he knew his voice wouldn't come out, when colourful waves washed over him, so bright that Harry had to shut his eyes. When he opened them again, the person had gone, and the waves had softened into a beautiful, gentle cocoon around him.

It was like magic. Like magic—

Harry woke up with a start, his chest heaving. He was a trembling mess. He tried to squeeze his hands into fists, but it felt like his energy was slipping away from him. Closing his eyes again, he counted his breaths and tried to ignore the pain in his head. Slowly he sat up, groaning when the pain shot through his spine, and he clutched his stomach as the nausea rose within.

"Kreacher," he croaked, not having the energy to even open the bed curtains. When Kreacher popped up outside the curtains, he dropped his head onto the pillow again, breathing harshly. "The potion. Please, I . . ."

"Kreacher has brought it here already," said Kreacher. "Would Master like to be fed?"

The idea of having Kreacher feeding him the potion with wrinkled fingers and cupping his jaw was not appealing in the slightest, but he could only bury his face deeper into the pillow, his stomach twisting violently. "Yes . . ." he managed shakily. He heard the sound of Kreacher opening the curtains. Before the darkness at the periphery of his vision claimed him, he felt Kreacher's hands turning his head, opening his lips as the bitter taste of potion touched his tongue.

When he opened his eyes again, Kreacher was still there, watching him with disinterested eyes. "How long did I . . .?" He sat up, running his fingers through his hair.

"Nearly three minutes," said Kreacher. "Will Master be having breakfast in bed?"

"No, no, I . . ." Harry groped around the sheets to find his glasses. "It's fine, the pain is gone. I'll be downstairs in a minute."

Kreacher didn't wait for another instruction and Disapparated. Harry put on his glasses, sighing in relief as he leaned against the headboard. Kreacher had left the curtains open again. Without the headache, staring at the bright, baby blue sky was calming. Harry let his mind memorise the dream. Glancing towards his bedside table, he contemplated for a moment before reaching for _The Dream Oracle_.

He remembered more than the colourful waves this time. After spending two nights free from the dreams at Ron and Hermione's flat, it seemed like the dream wanted him to pay for the missing time, and it almost made him black out. Well, actually, he did black out, but that was beside the point.

Flipping the pages, he searched for a chapter that could describe darkness, or a man, or a strong wind. Yet after counting his age, the day he dreamed and the number of words of his dream's subjects, the result was not what Harry hoped.

At least getting squished by a baby troll didn't seem like the right answer.

**. .**

**. .**

"Where do you think Malfoy is?"

Ron looked up at him after being kicked out from Robards' office because of their poor performance that month. The guy from Devon had escaped, having only faked his allergy to Veritaserum by drinking a Weasley Wizards Wheezes product. Harry gritted his teeth all the while as Robards showered them with spittle, but otherwise congratulated himself on not saying anything in the office.

"The ferret? I don't know." Ron shrugged. "He's the only one we haven't been able to trace for the past half a year. Why? Do you think if we catch him, Robards'll cut us some slack?" asked Ron with hopeful eyes.

"Pursuing ex-Death Eaters is Senior Aurors' job, Ron."

"And the Chosen One's," Ron said. "And I'm your partner. Think I can convince Robards to accompany you? It's only _Malfoy_."

"Maybe," Harry said with a scowl. "But now Robards won't even let me in for capturing Rowle, thanks to that Lauren bloke."

"Lorellei Applebee," corrected Ron. "And Christopher the jewellery thief we let escape because we thought the culprit was Anderson, his cousin. And Mrs Kettleson, who filed a complaint because she heard us badmouthing her cat."

"Makes you wonder if we're really suited to be Aurors, doesn't it?" Harry slumped his shoulders.

"We're still new, mate," said Ron, patting Harry's shoulder, though his own voice betrayed his lack of confidence. "I'm sure Robards'll change his mind—nobody's more perfect at capturing Death Eaters than you," he added.

Harry smiled at him, but seeing how Neville had risen up to the first rank these past few months, Harry doubted his mood would improve any time soon. It wasn't that he underestimated Neville, especially not after he killed Nagini. But still, Neville was more interested in Herbology—it wasn't fair at all. Besides, Snape would roll in his grave if he knew Neville was such a capable Auror. Not that Snape would approve that Harry had become one.

"I'm meeting Hermione and Luna for lunch. You coming?" Harry asked, determined not to think about that again. At this, Ron's face quickly turned sour.

"I'm not meeting Hermione," he announced loudly. "And if you see her, tell her I'm not going home."

Harry sighed. "Another row? Fine, whatever," said Harry, already deciding he wouldn't pass on the message. "Meet you later then."

He ambled out of the busy area of Auror offices before Ron could open his mouth again.

When he arrived at the small restaurant in Muggle London, Luna was already there. The place was humble and simply decorated, but the number of patrons it had was quite large. Fortunately, on Monday the place wasn't as crowded as usual. Harry walked through the narrow path between mahogany tables and chairs, waving slightly at Luna. She had chosen the table in the corner near a huge glass window today. When Harry mentioned it because he wasn't comfortable eating while other people could stare at him from the pavement, Luna only smiled and said, "The Wrackspurts are afraid of the sun, I chose this table for you."

Harry resisted a grimace. "I thought Wrackspurts live inside peoples' heads?"

"They just fly into your ears. But the new Wrackspurts are more persistent."

"The new Wrackspurts," Harry echoed.

"They can make your brain even fuzzier," said Luna. "They can make you forget your dreams, too."

Harry paused at that, inwardly ashamed for doubting Luna for a moment. "I've remembered a lot more about my dream."

"That's nice, Harry. Did you see it in your dream?"

"It?" Harry repeated, certain Luna wasn't talking about Wrackspurts. He was about to enquire further when Hermione arrived, hurriedly flopping onto the seat beside him.

"Hello, Harry, Luna," she said. "I'm sorry, today was hectic, I thought I wouldn't make it."

"It's fine." Harry shrugged.

"We were just talking about the mutated Wrackspurts," said Luna dreamily. As Hermione frowned at her, she added, "I think you've got one in your office. I'll send you one of my necklaces if you want."

Hermione only smiled awkwardly, while Luna turned to Harry.

"Do you want me to make one for you, too, Harry? Who knows, it might help ease the pain better than the potions."

"Potions?" Hermione perked up, and Harry almost swore under his breath. "What does she mean by that?" She narrowed her eyes accusingly at Harry.

"Er," said Harry. "Well, you know, the pain's been bad lately, and I can't stand it without—"

"Why didn't you tell me about _that_?" Hermione looked affronted. "Harry, you don't take anything illegal, do you?"

"Don't accuse—"

"It's not illegal," said Luna calmly, "the shop owner in Knockturn Alley is a friend of my father's acquaintance's second cousin's wife, and she said it'd be legal sooner or later, so it's a soon-to-be-legal potion, or a not-quite-illegal-potion."

"Not Ministry approved," shrieked Hermione in alarm. Harry could only glare at Luna, who was looking as oblivious as ever. Hermione continued to fuss, "There might be side effects! Or worse, you could get addicted! What kind of potion—what kind of pain—oh _God_!"

"Who cares about getting addicted?" snapped Harry. "You don't expect me to pass out from the pain every day, do you?"

"There must be other ways—if you just told me!"

"Yeah, you'd need a whole month to research first and in the mean time I might already die," said Harry sarcastically. Hermione glared at him.

"I do know about priorities, Harry, I thought you'd know that." She lifted her chin in defiance, and suddenly Harry felt a tiny bit of guilt creeping inside him. "Tell me then. Were you in pain at our flat last weekend, too?"

Harry sank lower into his seat, avoiding her eyes. "No, I didn't dream at all at your place."

"That's because it's in your bedroom, Harry," said Luna casually, as though she hadn't just told Hermione Harry's secret. Harry was still puzzled by the 'it', but Hermione let out a scandalised gasp.

"Your room! The pain! I should have known," she said loudly, eyes widened in excitement, seemingly forgetting how cross she was just thirty seconds ago. "Harry, we've got to go to your place!"

"Why? We haven't even ordered anything," Harry groaned. That light in Hermione eyes never meant anything good.

"Not right now, of course. But after work," said Hermione with a look. She signed the waitress to come, then ordered to Harry, "Meet me in the Atrium."

Harry merely blew his fringe away from his forehead.

**. .**

**. .**

Hermione swished her wand one last time, letting out a gentle, purple light which engulfed all the furniture in Harry's bedroom. The light slipped inside even the tiniest space available—like under his bed or the cracks between drawers. Harry waited, resting his back on the wall, covering a yawn with his palm. As the light faded into soft pink before it disappeared entirely, Hermione's frown lines grew deeper.

"I was so sure it was a curse placed in your bedroom," she said desperately.

"You've checked for a curse for hours, Hermione. And we already did a full check of the entire house before," Harry pointed out.

"I know, but we were eighteen, we didn't know as many spells as we do now!"

Harry wanted to say that he only knew one more spell from Auror training, but he bit his tongue instead.

"This is the House of Black, it wouldn't be surprising if there were curses we missed," said Hermione again, expression thoughtful as she paced.

"Yeah, but we can continue searching tomorrow. It's almost midnight, Hermione, shouldn't you get some rest?" Harry tried to keep the weariness away from his voice, but upon Hermione's glare, he knew he hadn't succeeded.

"Fine." She huffed. "But tell me what you got from _The Dream Oracle_ first."

"Basically I'll meet my doom by being squeezed by a baby troll," said Harry, raising his eyebrows mockingly. "I'm sure Professor Trelawney would be delighted to hear that."

"Oh, honestly. _Accio The Dream Oracle_." The book flew into Hermione's open hands in a second. "Did you count the subject's words, your age and the date?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "I did. Three times."

"Did you add the waves' colours, too?"

Harry paused. "Er."

"You didn't, I knew it." Hermione nodded, humming under her breath to annoy Harry. "Right, according to this book and your story, if I add the colours purple, red, yellow and orange, it means someone or something is waiting for you."

Harry snorted a laugh. "How romantic. Are they waiting for me in a tower in some old castles?"

"Actually, yes. The book says it's somewhere ancient and mighty."

"Oh, perfect," Harry said derisively. "I'm getting myself a sleeping beauty. Do I need to slay a dragon?"

Hermione sent him a withering look, slamming the book closed. "It still doesn't explain the pain."

"It won't explain anything, Hermione, it's the book Professor Trelawney used," said Harry, his voice close to a whine. "Now I'm so tired and tomorrow Robards wants me to go on a boring stakeout again, because apparently adrenaline packed jobs are too good for me and Ron."

"Oh Harry, you're still a—"

"New Auror, I know," said Harry jadedly. "The Chosen One, my arse."

Hermione smiled. "Well, you did defeat Voldemort."

Harry wasn't sure if it was indeed true. Voldemort was going to take every follower he had with him to the grave, and after that, there was no guarantee he didn't have other plans up his sleeve. Even dead, he was still the biggest threat, and Harry was only an incompetent Auror. Still, he shrugged at Hermione, feigning nonchalance.

When Hermione left, it didn't take him too long to collapse in his bed.

**. .**

**. .**

_Who are you?_ Harry screamed, but nothing came out past his mouth, even though he could feel the vibration in his throat. The man was standing before him, his silhouette in darkness showing the perfect posture of someone having been born to nobility. Harry moved closer, a wand appearing in his hand. The man reached out at the same time.

_No_, Harry said, jerking a step backward. _No, you'll blind me again with the lights!_

The man now walked towards him in long strides—somehow Harry could hear the _step, step, step_ from his shoes ringing steadily on the ground. The wind blew harder. Harry squinted, determined not to lose his sight this time. Then the lights came.

Lifting his forearm to shield his eyes, Harry struggled not to blink, let alone close his eyes. But it was too bright—he could feel his eyes water, and his eyelids twitching uncontrollably. _No,_ he shouted, _no, no, no! _He pointed the wand upward and yelled at the top of his lungs, _Nox!_

The lights died.

The darkness had never been so blissful as it was then. Harry blinked his tears away, trembling violently. But the man was gone—nothing was there aside from the deep, endless darkness. Harry hiccupped, dropping to his knees as he rubbed his cheeks harshly. Then, shakily, he whispered, _Lumos_.

The man was still gone, the wind was dry and empty. Harry turned the glowing wand around him, attempting to inspect the place. He didn't get to see much, however, for the sight of the wand in his hand made him drop it to the ground.

The clattering sounds echoed eerily in the dark.

**. .**

**. .**

"Fuck," Harry hissed, sitting up instantly. He could feel his cheeks wet from tears, and his hair clammy on his forehead. But the familiar headache and nausea were absent. "_Fuck_!" He grabbed his glasses, tore the bed curtains apart and jumped to his feet, shocked once he found out that it was still dark. For a moment he felt disoriented, worried if he was still in his dream, yet as he saw the gentle moonlight seeping in between his parted curtains, he sighed in relief.

He didn't stay still for too long. Scrubbing his wet cheeks with the heel of his palm, Harry quickly strolled towards his dresser. The antique black, oak dresser was nothing really special aside from its carving of the Black family crest. It was one of the few things he kept because of Sirius, although the creaking sound it produced grated on his ears every time he wanted to open the drawers. But he kept it only to store valuable things—the ones he didn't need to take out often, thus it wasn't that annoying so far.

Taking his wand from the small, cheap wooden desk that looked mismatched with the mighty dresser beside it, Harry swished his wand and undid the wards. He slid open the middle drawer with a loud screech. As expected, the thing inside it made him gasp in wonder.

It was blanketed by shiny, blue satin, but the white glow was still faintly visible. Cautiously, Harry lifted it out of the drawer. He put it down on the floor, untying the satin and slowly unveiling the wand hidden inside it. The wisps of white tendrils reached out to him, making him jerk his hand away. With wide eyes he observed the tender light coming from the wand, and held his breath as Luna's words resounded in his mind.

_Did you see it in your dream?_

The catalyst. Draco Malfoy's wand. It was what had made Harry dream all this time.

Harry sprung to his feet, grabbing his own wand and swearing when he almost stumbled on the way out of his bedroom. He ran down the stairs, slamming the door open as soon as he arrived at the end of the first floor hallway. Magical torches lit up to show a big, dusty chamber covered in floral wallpaper. The room was rarely used, and Harry had dumped a lot of Hermione's and Black family books there, except for the ones with dark magic. Hovering over the stacks of books, Harry muttered impatiently as he strived to remember the title of the book he needed.

"Argh. _Accio_ books about wands," he said, giving up. Three books flew towards him, dangerously close to destroying the high piles of other books. Harry caught the first two safely, though the last one smacked him right in the face.

Peeking at the title of the book that had whacked him, Harry scowled. He had read _Where There's a Wand, There's a Way_ a long time ago in his fourth year, and was sure there wasn't anything that would explain Draco bloody Malfoy's wand. He tossed it aside, and ran his fingers over the golden embossed lettering on a black leather book. _Wands and Its Owners_, it read. Harry quickly shuffled the pages, certain it would explain the connections between Malfoy's wand and Harry's ownership, but groaned once he realised the book consisted only of a huge list of witches, wizards and their wands in the sixteenth century. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, and then moved on to the last book.

It was quite old—the cover was dark red, but its edges were uneven brown as though someone had tried to burn the book but changed their mind. The cover was blank, so Harry had to flip open the first page to see the title—_Mysteries of Wandlore through the Years. _Excited, Harry rapidly skimmed over the pages, careful so as not to tear the yellowing sheets. It had records about mysterious things that had been known to happen to witches, wizards and their ownership of wands throughout the centuries. Harry grinned, quickly sitting down the floor and leaning against the wall to read.

The book was too thick, though. An hour later Harry felt his eyelids droop. He sighed, scratching his jaw as he skimmed over a case where a witch in the seventeenth century found a huge stack of gold in a forest because her wand Apparated her there without warning. Harry was about to give up and try to find another way to find Malfoy as long as he didn't have to read, when he caught what was on the next page.

_A wand shared by two owners is rare but possible. In one instance, a wand can still remember its original owner's magic, and therefore when said owner badly needs it to channel their magic, the wand will try to answer the call. When the original owner is not within reach, often the wand will feed from the new owner's magic instead. This condition will not stop as long as the wand cannot answer to its original owner directly. Giving the wand back to its original owner is the wisest option, for many times the new owner suffers the severity of having their magic denuded completely and meets their demise._

Harry blinked, trying to discern what that meant. It seemed a bit . . . close to his situation.

So Harry was the new owner of Malfoy's wand, and Malfoy was missing somewhere, presumably fleeing from the Ministry. Harry had started having the dreams half a year ago—which was about the same time Malfoy had gone missing. And if Malfoy needed to use a wand that badly now, if he was in danger, if Voldemort's curse was . . . that explained why Harry felt weakened every morning. That explained the colourful waves that felt like magic, and why tonight, when he hadn't given in to the waves, he hadn't had the usual headache and nausea. That meant Malfoy was waiting for his wand somewhere—and Harry would die if he didn't give it back to him.

Or . . . Malfoy would die if Voldemort got to him first before Harry could return the wand.

Throwing his head back so it thudded against the wall, Harry rubbed his hair with both hands. It just figured that this bad thing in his life would lead to Draco Malfoy. It was just how much fate _loved_ him. But now the problem was, if Malfoy was really waiting for his wand, where the hell was he? And how would Harry find him?

_It means someone or something is waiting for you_, Hermione's voice resonated in his head, _the book says it's somewhere ancient and mighty_.

Eyes wide, Harry straightened up. Somewhere ancient and mighty. Where would be more suitable to find Malfoy than in the ancient, mighty Malfoy Manor?

"Shit," Harry said, scrambling to his feet. Of course, the Ministry had sealed the place, and Aurors had raided it many times since it all started. But Draco Malfoy was the Malfoy heir—he must have known a secret place which no one was aware of. Harry should have known.

He galloped back upstairs, screeching to a halt only to pick up the glowing wand on his bedroom floor. He covered it again with the satin, and cast several precautionary spells so it was safe for him to touch it. He snatched his robes and cloak, pocketing the wand while keeping his own ready under his sleeve. He practically jumped down the stairs to hurry through the front hall and out the main door. He Apparated before he could reconsider.

**. .**

**_To Be Continued  
_**

**. .**

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	2. Two

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* * *

**And the Clock Keeps Ticking**

**Two**

The iron gate of Malfoy Manor looked grand but decrepit. The chilly wind did nothing to help Harry appreciate the beauty of the estate—or the lack thereof. Harry had always thought that having a big house was creepy, and seeing the abandoned Manor now affirmed his notion. His memory of the Manor only added his distaste.

No light but that of the moon was there, so Harry had to depend on _Lumos_. He whispered a spell so the Auror wards could let him through, feeling lucky for the first time that he was part of the investigation team. The gate no longer automatically opened to guests ever since the Aurors stripped everything from the estate, including its magic. Harry climbed it cautiously, worried in case there were some kind of triggers that the Aurors had put in without his knowledge. Upon landing on the other side, he let out a relieved breath and continued walking down the driveway.

Half a year ago, Harry still couldn't walk into this place without suffering an overwhelming emotional turmoil. Tonight wasn't that different, except the excitement of potentially discovering where Draco Malfoy had been hiding all this time beat every other emotion. But if there was one emotion that could win over the excitement, it was anger—Harry vowed he would punch Malfoy into a pulp the moment he saw him. Harry wasn't here to save his own arse, and he wasn't here to save Malfoy's either. He was here to give the git a lesson.

Spelling another set of wards to open up for him, Harry pushed the front door open. A loud creak reverberated, creating a hollow echo throughout the empty front hall. Harry took in the surrounding area, and noted that everything was just like it had been the last time he was here. White sheets covered everything, dust and spider webs being the only things different to half a year ago. Eagerly Harry made his way along the long hallway, refusing to pause even when he realised he had no idea _where_ Malfoy's secret place might be.

Something rustled behind him. Halting his steps, Harry turned around only to find empty air. But the rustling sounds continued, eerily whispering from somewhere behind the long walls. Harry frowned, intending to move nearer or just press his ear to the wall, when a loud _clang_ made him jump. Whirling around, he squinted into the dark. There was something reflecting his wand light on the tiles—a small chandelier. Harry inspected the bronze, small table attached to the opposite wall of the hallway, his frown deepening. Someone had clearly pulled the white sheet covering it, leaving the fabric discarded and the chandelier to roll down the tiles.

"Malfoy," he hissed, feeling triumphant but also pissed off at the same time.

Throwing the chandelier with a rattle, Harry picked up his pace again, traversing ridiculously long hallway after hallway. "Malfoy," shouted Harry crossly, his voice rebounding endlessly. He slammed every door open, his stomach tightening with annoyance with every fruitless search. "Malfoy, you bloody git, I know you're here!"

A deep _swoosh_ passed through him—with it came a strong wind banging a huge door open right before him. Gaping, Harry stood rooted to the floor.

_Was that—?_

Pulling himself together, Harry slowly headed towards the door. His breath caught in his throat as he realised he was stepping into the very place where Dobby was last alive. Fury bubbled inside him.

"Malfoy," he yelled, clenching his fist tight as his other hand waved the light on the tip of his wand almost savagely. "You fucking idiot," he growled, crossing the dusty carpet towards the middle of the room. "I swear, if I catch you, I'll kill—"

More wind knocked over him, and the next thing he knew, a large crystal chandelier crashed down from the ceiling, only inches from where his feet froze on the carpet. The deafening crash might have made his ears bleed, plus his arm burned, probably from where the crystal pieces scraped through his sleeve, but Harry could only replay how Dobby had destroyed the very same thing years ago.

And all of a sudden Draco Malfoy was there, glaring at him.

. . . or perhaps Harry's eyes were playing tricks on him.

". . . Malfoy?"

"Go the fuck away, Potter," said Malfoy in a low hiss. Harry was sure no one but Malfoy could spit out his name like that. This was the real Malfoy, the one and only, even though he was . . .

"Malfoy," Harry said, swallowing. "Are you a . . ."

"Ghost, Potter? Looks to me like I am," Malfoy sneered, extending his arms open as he floated into the air. His body, wrapped in what looked like an expensive black jumper and trousers, was silvery translucent, his hair the soft colour of the moon, yet his eyes could reflect cold anger even better than when he was solid. Harry's stomach lurched at the thought—Draco Malfoy was dead.

"When, how did you . . ." Harry licked his lips nervously. "Was it me? Am I too late to give you back your wand?"

"My wand?" Malfoy looked genuinely confused.

"Was it Voldemort?"

Malfoy winced, and Harry could feel it again—the strong wind swirling around them. The remains of the crystal chandelier jangled noisily, several white sheets blew off the furniture as they shook. A realisation hit Harry then.

"Wait, if you're a ghost, how can you—did _you_ make this fall?" He pointed at the rattling chandelier, narrowing his eyes. "Did _you_ want to kill me?"

Malfoy seemed to sober up—the wind stopped blowing at once. Silence stretched out oddly again, before he sneered, "As if the Chosen One could die merely from a falling chandelier."

"That's not the point," growled Harry.

"I only wanted you to go," snapped Malfoy. "Still do, actually. Shall I show you the door?"

"No," Harry snapped back. He took several deep breaths, knowing that he should process this new information—he couldn't imagine what he would say to Robards tomorrow. "Look, can you—tell me, how and when did you die?"

Malfoy's expression turned icy again. Harry could sense the wind picking up again, so he quickly raised his hands. "All right, I can guess, anyway! It's probably the same with all the other ex-Death Eaters!" Malfoy narrowed his eyes at that. "But we never found your body, so we thought you were—" Harry paused, feeling his throat constricting. "We thought we still had time . . ."

But Harry had never really wanted to help—had never really cared if they really still had time. He was only furious, _betrayed_—and those weren't enough.

"There's nothing to explain," said Malfoy at last, his tone pained. Harry looked up to find him scowling at the floor. "I just—one day I was in my bed, then suddenly I've already—" He swallowed, clenching his transparent fingers into fists. "I didn't even get to see my body."

"You didn't?"

"Perhaps my mother had buried me in the family graveyard for all I know."

"Oh."

Malfoy watched him carefully. "Why would—" He stopped himself, appearing to be somewhat unsettled before shaking his head. "Go away, Potter. You know I'm dead now, pity that you can't kill me anymore. Go and tell your little Auror friends out there and never come back."

Harry supposed it was exactly what he should do, but he still couldn't bring himself to go.

"Go _away_, Potter," Malfoy pressed when Harry didn't even move a finger. "My father wouldn't approve of you—"

"Your father's dead!"

"And so is yours," Malfoy sneered. "Long before mine, may I add."

"At least I'm still _alive_," said Harry spitefully.

Stronger wind roared around him—Malfoy's face contorted into pure rage as he grabbed blindly for something to throw. He swiped a ceramic vase, sending it to Harry in a powerful strike, but Harry was ready with a _Protego_. He smirked.

"Really, Malfoy, did you think you can beat me with only a—"

The vase broke through Harry's shield, cuffing him right in the head. Harry didn't even remember if the blow made him scream. The only thing his brain could supply in panic was that he still had Malfoy's wand in his pocket, and how repulsed Malfoy's eyes were. Then darkness took him under.

When he came to, Harry whimpered. His skull felt like cracking, and his stomach churned violently. The dream had come again. And this time Harry didn't have the energy to fight it. He peeked through one eye, and saw the darkness that was enveloping the road to Malfoy Manor. Malfoy must have thrown him outside then.

Harry held his head with both hands, panting heavily. How could Malfoy be that strong as a ghost? Why did the nausea and headache worsen now of all times? He whimpered, feeling the stickiness in his hair and forehead that could only mean blood. He wanted to call Kreacher—he needed the potion, he couldn't remember ever needing it more than now. But he could only manage a few incoherent syllables, before he vomited all over the ground.

He writhed, wet soil clinging to his skin and cloak as rain chose that very moment to pour down. Apparently even nature hated him. Collapsing with his cheek scraped against the gravel and the metal of his glasses digging into his skin, Harry could only stare listlessly at the silhouette of Malfoy Manor and the heavy drops of rain before he lost consciousness again.

**. .**

**. .**

The nausea was gone in the morning. Or was it afternoon? Harry blinked groggily, wondering where he was and what he had done to get his body all sticky, and why he was sleeping on gravel and soil. At the sight of one transparent Draco Malfoy, though, everything came crashing back. He sat up abruptly, hissing when the movement made his vision spin. Right, the git had hit him with a bloody vase. Fixing up his askew glasses, Harry gave Malfoy his best glare.

"Really, Potter, it was only a small vase—I'd assumed you'd at least know how to cast _Episkey_. Was it necessary to sleep all night in front of the gate? Or was the Malfoy ground really that comfortable? People would think someone murdered you, you see," said Malfoy dismissively.

"You were the one who threw me out, you prat," Harry said, with feeling. He fumbled around for his wand before trying his best to point it at his wound. Malfoy rolled his eyes.

"_Episkey_," Malfoy said with a wave of his hand. Harry sensed the dull ache in his forehead and arm vanish along with the hot and cold sensation he had grown accustomed to these past few years. Malfoy looked at him again, scrunching his nose up and spelling him clean. Ignoring the tingling feeling, Harry reached up, staring in awe at Malfoy as he touched the smooth skin of his forehead.

"How _did_ you do that?"

"With all you've done all these years, Potter, I would have thought you had known about magic."

"No, you git, I mean why were you able to do that?" Harry paused, taking in his surroundings, and said, "How could you come out of the Manor? I thought ghosts were supposed to be tied down to a specific location by the Ministry! Besides—" He leapt on his feet and caught Malfoy's arm.

"Wh—" Malfoy jerked backwards, his arm dissolving into air for a moment before it appeared again. "What are you doing?" He looked disgusted, while Harry let his fingers open and close in contemplation.

"You can make yourself solid or intangible as you wish," Harry said.

"You touched me to prove that point? I've cuffed you with a bloody vase, Potter."

"But can ghosts do that?"

"Well, I don't know about the other ghosts, but I've always known I was special," said Malfoy, looking ridiculously pleased with himself. At Harry's look, he sent a sidelong, doubtful glance. "If you have any ridiculous theories that suggest otherwise, feel free to voice them, Potter."

Harry gritted his teeth. "No theories and I don't need your permission to talk. But with the many impossible things that have happened in my life, I wouldn't scratch the possibility that maybe you're not a ghost."

"And with the many things that have happened in _my_ life, I wouldn't think anything good could possibly take place at this point."

Harry was a bit taken aback, but for once Malfoy wasn't taking the piss. He just . . . looked tired, and perhaps wary. Maybe later when Harry had already showered and had breakfast, he would ask himself why he could read Malfoy's expression when he was that colourless, but . . . he figured he just could, and that was all right for now.

"Look, you can touch things—and be touched, and you can go wherever you like, and you can do that wind blowing thing, and that _magic_ thing. Even Peeves can't do magic," Harry said, trying to rationalise his own thoughts even though he didn't really know what those thoughts were. "Isn't that weird?"

Malfoy's body was stiff, but Harry now recognised the way he stood—floated, actually—from the dreams. All straight back and smooth movement, something that was born from endless practice and lessons. "I suppose it's not normal, but . . ." Malfoy hesitated, looking up to Harry's eyes, "does anyone know anything—any _news_ about me?"

"Just that you've been missing for half a year?" Harry said, his mind reeling.

"Figured," said Malfoy quietly, throwing his glance towards the Manor. "I knew that's why they kept coming. At one point they just stopped, though. That's when I assumed they'd found out about my death."

Harry frowned. He didn't really understand how it felt to be trapped, waiting for the news about your own death, but that wasn't what was important now. He reached into his pocket, taking out the bundle of satin. The wand inside wasn't glowing, it seemed, and maybe that was why Harry didn't wake up with the nausea. Putting it on the ground, Harry sat and exposed the wand with a simple spell. He lifted his face to see Malfoy's reaction.

As expected, Malfoy's eyes were wide and his mouth opened slightly in stunned silence. But that only lasted for a few seconds, before those eyes narrowed and his lips pulled into a sneer. "What the _fuck_, Potter? You never thought of giving me back my wand when I was alive, but now you're showing it off?"

Harry resisted flinching at that. He swallowed the guilt—and yes, there was a possibility that if he had thought of returning the wand earlier, maybe Malfoy wouldn't . . .

Pushing that thought aside, he said in as steady voice as possible instead, "This wand is feeding off my magic because it needs _your_ magic. If you were dead, it shouldn't have done that. It still senses your magic." He looked up again to find Malfoy hesitating, staring at his wand.

"We all know that magic won't die," said Malfoy. "The Hogwarts founders and the Da—"

"—Voldemort," Harry cut him off. Malfoy didn't so much as wince, but he looked even paler. When Malfoy spoke again, his voice shook a little.

"Maybe it's the same with me."

"No." Harry shook his head. "Voldemort left a curse, the founders left their magic in the castle—they're just dead magic, you know? But your magic _needs_ a wand. It's as if your magic is alive."

"As if I _am_ still alive," said Malfoy, his eyes widened in realisation. "Bloody hell, am _I _still alive?"

"Maybe," said Harry. "Why don't you test first if our assumption is correct?"

Malfoy stared at him, unsure and—there it came again, the flash of fear on his face. He then eyed the wand for a long time and swallowed. "What the fuck are you planning, Potter?" he asked loudly, his voice shaky. "Giving me hopes and then what? Laughing your arse off when it turns out that I'm indeed _dead_?"

"Ha-ha. Yeah, that'd be the funniest thing in this world, your death," said Harry sarcastically. At Malfoy's heated glare, Harry clenched his jaw. "Look, it's not just you. Your wand is eating my magic, and I'd die, too, if you can't take it back."

"The Boy Who Lived dies at the hands of his enemy's wand? Merlin forbid," snapped Malfoy. But Harry could see the way his shoulders relaxed slightly.

Concentrating back on his wand, Malfoy took a deep breath—or at least it looked like that, Harry didn't even know how he breathed anymore—and lowered his feet to the ground, resting on one knee. His hand gave away a tremor as it paused for a second right above the wand. Then slowly, his fingers curled around it, the black colour visible through the outline of his fingers. At once a very bright light shot up that Harry had to shield his eyes from with his forearm. It was only there for a moment, yet Harry could still see spots in his vision thanks to the brightness.

"Well?" Harry asked when Malfoy only watched the wand in his hand.

"I don't feel anything in particular," Malfoy admitted. "I can use magic without my wand, but this still responds to my magic, I suppose," he said as he sent a rainbow spark into the air. He looked at Harry and pondered, "What do you think it means?"

"It means I don't have to have a headache anymore. It means the wand's yours again."

Malfoy shot him an annoyed glance. "Is that all you can tell me? Still not very bright, are you, Potter?"

"At least I figured it out myself." Harry scowled. "The book only told me that if you need your wand badly, it'd suck my magic dry unless I return it to you."

"But I don't need it _badly_," said Malfoy before he paused, frowning. "Perhaps . . . the fact that my magic runs free means I need something to contain it in . . . because I don't have a body," he said, his eyes widening. "I think I have read a ritual where one's soul can be separated from one's body!"

"You mean, like, your body is in coma or something?" Harry asked.

"I have to admit I'm still not sure," said Malfoy, attempting to school his expression, but it was clear that the hope and enthusiasm were too huge for him to handle. "But my mother must know something. She must have been the one who performed the ritual," he paused for a beat, uncertain, "although I'm not sure why she did this."

Harry was also unsure why he was still there. He had done his share—the wand was back, he had given clues to Malfoy, and now he didn't need to help Malfoy with anything more. But . . .

"There must have been something—a reason for her to do this. Something important, I reckon," Malfoy said, his eyes unfocussed and Harry could see the fleeting hurt and doubt Malfoy tried so hard to mask. "She wouldn't do this to me if there weren't . . ."

"'Course she _wouldn't_," Harry said even before he could ask himself why he felt the need to reassure Malfoy. "She bloody lied to Voldemort for you."

Malfoy stared at him for a moment, before he looked away and nodded. "Yes, that's what I thought. But we still have to ask her. I mean, I'm sure she has a good reason, but I still want my body back."

"Malfoy—"

"She never comes home lately, but since the Aurors kept coming, maybe she chose to stay somewhere in the Malfoy summer house or—"

"Malfoy, your mother—"

"I can find her myself, Potter," said Malfoy, louder and faster than necessary. His lips pressed thin and Harry could see his neck rigid as he glared at Harry. "As you can see, I'm capable of going out by myself. I can find ways to visit my mother, I just need to decide which house I should visit first."

Harry watched Malfoy staring at him with something akin to a challenge in his eyes, and somehow Harry couldn't bring himself to utter the words that were already on the tip of his tongue. Malfoy tore his eyes away, fumbling with his wand. After a couple of beats, he said, "Don't go near the Manor again, Potter." He subsequently flew through the gate, not bothering to glance back at Harry again.

Harry sighed, scrubbing at his nape wearily. Of course he didn't want to go there again, but . . .

He shook himself, making sure he had his wand and wished desperately for a comforting hot bath. But as he left Wiltshire and arrived in Grimmauld Place, he didn't have time to do anything other than quick wash before grabbing his Auror robes. His whole body ached from sleeping on the ground, yet that wasn't what made him tired. Somehow, everything was jumbled inside his head, and Harry didn't know what had possessed him when he didn't even mention anything about Malfoy in his meeting with Robards that afternoon.

**. .**

**. .**

"All right, Harry?" asked Neville as Harry slumped on his desk, face buried in his arms.

"Fine," he said, didn't even bother to look up. He had barely come in on time for his stakeout with Ron, and they had spent eleven hours hiding in a crate to ambush some illegal potions dealer making their transaction, but in the end the information they got had been leaked and the dealer had fled elsewhere. The only evidence left in the room was a map of England with a random blue mark on it. Another futile work, another bad impression. Another rain of spittle from Robards.

"At least you still got the Rowle case, mate," said Ron limply from his own desk. "You can capture Death Eaters and all."

"Ah, I'll be in the team, too," said Neville, smiling good-naturedly when Harry leaned back to his chair. "Briefing is tomorrow, right? The other team arrived in South America this morning."

"You're in the team?" Ron squeaked. "Bloody hell, should have forced Robards to put me in, too!"

"I heard they'll assign as many Aurors as they can to track Malfoy down," said Neville awkwardly. "He's the last one after all."

Harry was silent at that. Malfoy wasn't really the last one—if anything, Rowle was the last. Malfoy had been dead for half a year, if Harry's calculation was correct. Or in a coma, or . . . whatever Mrs Malfoy might have done to him. Or . . . was it Voldemort? Had the bastard planned something by using Malfoy? Harry also wouldn't put it past Malfoy to have some dirty plans, but . . . he didn't look like someone who knew anything. And Harry had had his own share of regrets for having nearly ki—for having _injured_ Malfoy because of his skewed perception in the sixth year. Was he ready to risk making the same mistake?

"Harry?" Neville called, looking at him worriedly. Ron mirrored his expression, while Harry tried not to mess his hair in distress.

"Hospitals, graveyards . . . I think we need to look them up again," said Harry. "We always thought Malfoy was abroad like the others, but . . ."

"Whoa, do you think Malfoy's dead?" Ron asked.

"The likelihood was always there," Neville said. "We don't know when the curse takes action. But we've got that covered, mate."

"Yeah, but we always focus more on monitoring Portkey registries, Floo connections, Apparition trails, Muggle transportations . . . what if Malfoy didn't really leave? What if he hid somewhere and then the curse activated and he's in a hospital now? Or worse, dead?" Harry strived not to show how he almost cringed at the word.

"If that happens, Harry, people would have told us. The death is not exactly normal, even Muggle media would make a big fuss if someone was found dead with his arm burnt," said Neville patiently.

"But we don't really know, do we?" said Harry. "What if whoever found him didn't want to report it and just—I don't know, buried him somewhere, or sent him to a Muggle hospital and then he'd be cremated or buried as a John Doe? Or what if he's still alive but still in a hospital? A Muggle one?"

"John who?" asked Neville.

"No, I mean—that doesn't matter. It's just, how if any of those things I mentioned happened to him?"

"Do you know something we don't, Harry?" asked Ron slowly, his expression suspicious. Harry swallowed, rubbing his nose just to mask his anxiety.

"I just think we need to check again. More thoroughly this time."

Neville and Ron stared at him for a long time, and then Neville said, "All right, I'll tell Hannah. She's good at collecting information, and she also has this Muggleborn friend who's an expert on this thing called a computer. We don't want Robards to know, do we?" He smiled knowingly.

"That'd be brilliant. Thanks, mate," Harry said, blowing out a relieved breath.

"Do we want Hermione to know?" Ron asked, his expression doubtful. Harry couldn't help but laugh.

"I doubt she'll agree, but if she does, maybe she can help Hannah," he said. "And it's about time you two made up."

Ron groaned at that. Neville and Harry laughed harder.

At least now he had a start. Finding Malfoy's body would be a good step to start this whole investigation—although he still had this nagging feeling about not telling his friends. But first things first, hence Harry shrugged and let himself forget about Malfoy for a while.

That night, Harry thought he would have the best sleep he had had in months without the dreams. But when his head touched the pillow, his treacherous mind decided to wander unwittingly. To Malfoy, to the fucking curse . . . to the possibility of Malfoy really being dead. When sleep finally came to him, it was already almost dawn.

**. .**

**. .**

Harry was standing outside the Manor gate again. He had been briefed for his mission to South America, and since he would likely be staying there for days or even weeks, there was one thing that he thought he should do beforehand. Harry just hoped his patience was enough to deal with Malfoy after an irritating day meeting with Robards and a bunch of Senior Aurors.

He climbed the gate and jumped to the other side, swearing when he realised how stupid it was not to bring a broom. The path to the front entrance was so far and it was wasting his time, when he could be catching up on his sleep with an early night. Once he arrived at the door, he cast _Lumos_, pushed the door open, and was immediately greeted by a sneering Malfoy.

"Back so soon, Potter?" The way Malfoy enunciated his name—Harry swore he had never thought it was possible for Malfoy to say his name with a whole new level of contempt.

"Just want to tell you I've begun searching for your body," said Harry, shrugging. It wasn't exactly true, but his real reason for coming tonight was a bit harder to say. Malfoy watched him with indifference, and something prickled Harry's mind—like something was definitely wrong but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was exactly.

"Yeah, well," said Malfoy as he floated dismissively further inside, disregarding Harry. "No need to trouble yourself, you know. It's not like I would thank you."

"What do you mean?" Harry bristled. "I'm just—"

"I'm dead, Potter," said Malfoy flatly, as if he was reading a script, his eyes apathetic.

"We've talked about the possibility of you being in a coma!"

"My mistake. I jumped to conclusions because a certain someone put ideas into my mind," Malfoy sneered. "There's a huge hole in my hypothesis, you see, and it's the fact that a soul without a body wouldn't be able to perform magic."

Harry blinked, a sudden nasty sensation tugging in his guts. "What?"

"I've done some research, although I can't do much since your little team of Aurors have taken away more than half of my family's library."

"We only took the Dark Arts books."

"Last time I checked, separating souls from bodies is still a Dark Art. So you should understand where I'm coming from."

"Well, then how can you be so sure that your theory is wrong?" Harry said indignantly. "You said yourself that you don't have the books!"

"There's one," said Malfoy lazily, "that's been left in my father's study. There's a little description about the ritual."

Harry was at a loss. Malfoy looked so—blank, lethargic, like he had given up everything, even hope. This time Harry couldn't really ignore the guilt of having made fun of Malfoy's death two nights prior and immediately felt ashamed. But again, Malfoy didn't make it easy for Harry to be sympathetic, and Harry wasn't sure if he really wanted to be sympathetic to Malfoy.

"I—I'm just—"

"Forget it, Potter, if you feel sorry for having given me false hope, then you should be," said Malfoy with a wave of his hand. He stopped floating and landed on the carpet, walking across the entrance hall to one of the hallways. Harry bit the inside of his right cheek, then followed him quietly.

There was no way Malfoy didn't know Harry was following him, but it seemed like he couldn't be bothered to notice Harry. For the first time, Harry thought he preferred the Malfoy who was obnoxious, arrogant and childish. At least he could hate that Malfoy with passion, unlike _this_ Malfoy. In the end, when the silence became too much to bear, Harry said, "I still think there's something different about you."

"Yes, yes, different, but still dead," said Malfoy without turning to face Harry.

"I wouldn't be so sure."

"I don't care what you think."

"Let me help you research," said Harry before he could stop himself. Malfoy halted his steps at that, regarding Harry.

"Pardon me, but I think I _misheard_ what you said."

"I can get access to the books we confiscated at the Ministry, and I've already had Neville and Hannah checking hospitals and graveyards—"

"Graveyards, Potter? And you said you believe I'm still _alive_."

"—and since we can't confirm it with your mother, there's nothing wrong in researching further."

Malfoy's face looked stricken all of a sudden, his shoulders tensed and his fingers clenched tightly. Harry held his breath when he realised what he had just said.

"About your mother—"

"She must be somewhere in the other houses—"

"—she died at the same time you went missing," Harry finished, knowing there wouldn't be any right way to say it. For a moment Malfoy didn't react—he just stood there, wide eyed and stiff and looking so transparent that he was barely visible by the light of Harry's wand, but at that moment the angry wind whirled around him. Harry staggered, protecting his eyes from the various vases, chandeliers and other knick-knacks barraging him.

"Why must you say it?" Malfoy's voice was low at first, before he screamed, "Why must you say it, Potter?"

Harry was slammed to the far end of the hallway, the wind roaring in his ears and his back burning from being dragged over the torn rugs. He strived to keep his glasses on, but it was so hard to see with the wind attacking him from every corner and tears welling up in his eyes. "_Fuck_, stop it, Malfoy," cried Harry as a picture frame almost collided with his head. But Malfoy was having none of it—it seemed like forever that Harry was in the middle of a typhoon, constantly having to dodge things when it was hard enough even to keep his eyes open.

When the wind finally died down, Harry felt his head throbbing and his limbs hot from scratches. He rubbed his eyes from the tears, and fixed his glasses. Malfoy was nowhere in sight, but it wasn't like Harry expected otherwise. He took a shuddering breath, stood up shakily and went to pick up his still lit wand. With another deep breath, he strode back along the hallway.

Malfoy Manor was too big for Harry's liking, though. It took him nearly an hour just to check the rooms and hallways on the ground floor, and still Malfoy was missing. The only sign that he was still there was the way white sheets blew about the place and furniture slid and tumbled by. Harry followed the mess that led to the stairs.

On the first floor, the rooms were bigger, the doors were farther apart. He kept searching, silently wondering why the hell he even cared. But the more he wanted to leave and write it off as another fight with Malfoy, the guiltier he felt. He should have known from the way Malfoy hadn't wanted to let Harry talk—it was as if Malfoy himself had suspected what had happened to his mother, but refused to believe it. Now though, Harry had said it out loud, and there was no way he could take it back.

Sighing, Harry rubbed his forehead against the dull yet insistent ache. He stopped in his tracks when he felt a breeze. It wasn't like Malfoy's mad, angry tornadoes. It felt gentle and cool like ordinary night air. He slowly turned a corner and saw Malfoy standing in front of an open window, hands clutched tightly on the white-painted sill. Harry took a deep breath, bracing himself for more confrontation, but Malfoy didn't even want to look at him.

"Um," Harry said, hating himself for not knowing what to say. "I'm sorry about your—um, mother."

Malfoy didn't answer, keeping his back towards Harry.

"I didn't mean to—you know. It's just—well, she saved me, so it was a shock for me, too. She wasn't even a Death Eater . . . and I'm sorry for telling you that, but I just—you know, thought you should know."

Another silence stretched between them. Harry dug his fingers into his palms and tried not to make too much noise with his nervous breathing. Malfoy didn't even move, and Harry hated the way he couldn't read this Malfoy. It was as if Malfoy was really a ghost—and maybe he was—without any signs of emotions displayed, all translucent in the soft glow of moonlight and the stars peeking through his silhouette. Harry pressed his lips together and was about to give up, when Malfoy said in a low voice, "I hate being dead."

Harry stared, having no words to say to that. He cut the distance between them, slowly inching forward to Malfoy's side. Now Harry could see the way Malfoy's eyebrows were drawn together, how his lips pinched tight. Malfoy blinked and blinked his dry eyes, and he looked so wretched that Harry couldn't help but feel something weighing his chest and clogging his breathing.

"Can't cry?" Harry asked despite the fact that his voice seemed to almost desert him.

"Tears are overrated," said Malfoy tightly. "I don't need them any longer."

"But you want them now," said Harry.

"One of the perils of being a ghost. Wonder if Myrtle feels like this every time she wants to cry."

"She's got all the water in the bathroom as her tears," said Harry as lightly as possible, but he couldn't stop himself from watching Malfoy carefully. Malfoy appeared to be blowing out his breath, his parted lips quivering, and Harry had to force himself not to bring his fingers there to sense whether Malfoy was still breathing. "I'll still search for your body. Just so you know."

"For the last time, Potter, I don't need your help."

"I'm not helping you. Believe it or not, it's actually important for our investigation."

Malfoy scoffed. "Figured. Hoping to send me to jail if I turn out to be alive, are you? I'm _dead_, Potter."

Harry shrugged. "There's no instruction to capture you. We just need to solve this whole chaos Voldemort left." Malfoy stayed silent, only keeping his eyes far below, on the dying garden and who knew what, so Harry continued, "Do you still have it—even as a ghost?"

"The Dark Mark?" Malfoy gave a bitter laugh. "It tortured me when I was alive, it might be what killed me, and it's following me even after my death. How brilliant is that?"

"You brought it on yourself."

"Yes, because my family—who are all _dead_ now—were fucking important to me, Potter," said Malfoy. Harry swallowed and kept his mouth shut, gripping his wand tighter.

"Right, okay. I just want you to know that I'm sorry about—well, about your mum, and I'll keep you updated if I find your body. That's all," he said eventually. "And it'll be a lot better if you can tell me where the Malfoy graveyard is . . ."

Malfoy looked at him with visible tiredness, as if he couldn't fathom why he even let Harry stay this long. "I'm not telling you anything. Not now."

"But you will?"

"Most likely not," said Malfoy, dismissing him again and going back to staring outside. "Can you go now?"

_No_, Harry wanted to answer, but instead he bit his tongue and nodded. Malfoy had just received a massive blow from Harry's clumsy attempt at telling him about his mother, Harry should at least give him time to cope with it. No one should have their parents killed, not even Malfoy. The image of his own parents flashed in his mind, and he swallowed back a choke. "I'll keep you updated," he said again as he stepped back, grateful his voice didn't waver much.

Malfoy shrugged one shoulder, his expression not visible to Harry now. Turning back the way he came, Harry spent the whole time walking out of the Manor and to the gate thinking about the grey lines of Malfoy's fingers that never once loosened from around the window sill as they talked.

**. .**

**. .**

"How did it go, lads?" Williamson asked, trudging past Harry and Neville. He eyed the metal door that separated the narrow corridor and the path to the interrogation room. A Brazilian Auror, Belmiro, nodded at him, dragging the heavy door open for him.

"It's been six hours," said Neville, although Harry was sure Neville knew Williamson didn't really expect an answer. Williamson shook his head slightly before he disappeared behind the door. Belmiro rolled his eyes at Harry, and then he showed off a dazzling smile that reminded Harry of Lockhart.

"Sure it'll take a lot more than six hours. Why not take a little break?" Belmiro offered.

"Sounds good. We could use some coffee, right, Harry?" Neville nudged Harry's shoulder.

"I want to go inside again," said Harry, glaring at the metal door. "I want to . . ." _find out what exactly killed Malfoy. _". . . I mean, he should just let us know what happened if he was smart."

Neville sighed. "I think he knows that we won't be able to help him even if he told us. I don't suppose he knows anything more than us, though, Harry. He just looked so . . . lost."

Maybe that was true. Rowle didn't even put up a struggle when Harry, Neville and Williamson cornered him in his small house. Dawlish, Savage, Belmiro and other Brazilian Aurors whose names Harry didn't really care enough to remember were on standby, hiding behind the bushes and trees and utilizing all the Disillusionment Charm variations they knew. But it was all for naught. Rowle wasn't even surprised to see them. His huge frame was hunched, hair unkempt—he looked completely defeated. But that didn't make the interrogation any easier. Rowle seemed to be extremely loyal to his mad leader, even when his own life was on the line.

"Still, there should be something—anything. Even Horcruxes can be destroyed," said Harry. "If Hermione was here—"

A heart-shattering cry cut through the metal door, and then there were uproar and the sounds of furniture being upended. He exchanged alarmed glances with Neville. Belmiro shouted in Portuguese and slammed open the door. Harry and Neville were hot on his trail, storming through the short, even narrower hallway. The bright Muggle neon lamps heightened the surreal atmosphere, and Harry could feel his mind spinning in panic. Once they broke through another metal door, Harry froze before he could even step inside.

Rowle was writhing on the floor, his left arm bright red, blood trailing like snakes over the Dark Mark. His right hand was clawing over the raw skin. Dawlish, Williamson and Savage were all staring in terror, as though they had forgotten that their mission was to keep the last survivor safe. Rowle's harsh cries soared louder and louder, until at some point his voice broke and heavy breathing was the only thing Harry could hear. The sudden quiet broke Harry out of his shock, and he rushed over to where Rowle was making a mess of his own arm.

"Fucking do _something_," yelled Harry at the other Aurors, before he strived to remember some spells, _anything_, that could help the last living human who might be able to bring Malfoy back. "_Aguamenti_!" He tried, washing all the red lines off Rowle's arm, but from the way Rowle jerked in spasms, Harry could tell it didn't work.

Dawlish and Savage were holding Rowle's upper body, while Neville and Belmiro tried to keep his legs from kicking around. Williamson barked orders to some witches through the Auror communication line, asking for emergency help from the local Wizarding hospital. Rowle's eyes were rolling to the back of his head, the sickly whiteness of his eyes making Harry wince and swear. Rowle couldn't fucking die now, just when Harry had finally found a reason to help. If only Hermione was here, maybe she would know something, even if it was only how to lengthen Rowle's life for another day. If only Malfoy was—

A gurgling sound vibrated in Rowle's throat, white foam seeping through the parted lips. Belmiro was talking endlessly in Portuguese, Dawlish and Savage swearing in what seemed like seven languages, their wands sparking colourful lights as they cast the spells that they already knew from the briefing would be futile, but still tried anyway. Neville was about to say something to Harry, opening his mouth, when Rowle's left arm flared with blue and yellow flames. The four of them jolted backwards, staring in horror as the fire engulfed the skin of that arm, crinkling any trace of life away with every lick, until the convulsions were gone from Rowle's body. Then the fire died out.

"Merlin," Savage managed a whisper after what seemed like an eternity.

"I think he's dead," Williamson said in a defeated tone, already giving up on calling for help. He shuffled over, tentatively searching for a pulse on Rowle's neck with his fingers. He nodded in confirmation after a while.

". . . what should we do now?" Neville asked, still staring at the corpse and not quite succeeding in overcoming his shock, if the way his voice trembled was any indication. Savage and Dawlish were already engaged in heated conversation about what course of action they thought they should do now that the mission had failed. Only Belmiro put his hand on Harry's shoulder and shook him out of his passive observation.

"Are you all right, kid?"

Was he all right? He certainly was, because it wasn't like it was his first time seeing this kind of gruesome scene. It wasn't like Rowle was someone he held dearly to him or was even worth his sympathy. But somehow, he couldn't help but imagine—if that was Malfoy who writhed on the floor, if that was Malfoy who screamed his voice hoarse, who was helpless and pale and beyond help with foam at his lips and the greys and blacks of his eyes disappeared to the back of his head. The thoughts made Harry's lunch threaten to escape from his mouth and something wet formed in the corners of his eyes. It was like someone had just kicked him in the guts and it _hurt so bad_.

Because Harry had done nothing to help. Because when he wanted to, he had failed.

"I don't think I am," said Harry quietly.

**. .**

******_To Be Continued_**

**. .**

Thank you for reading! So, things will get complicated now. Is Draco really a ghost? What do you think? Lol. Anyway, hope you enjoyed this chapter and please stay tuned for the next one! :)


	3. Three

Hello, sorry for the wait. Please enjoy this chapter, too.

* * *

**And the Clock Keeps Ticking**

**Three**

When Harry listlessly dragged himself home on Thursday afternoon after submitting a report to Robards, Ginny's owl was waiting for him on the kitchen table. Kreacher must have taken care of it like usual, for the tiny brown owl would have never flown back to its owner if Harry hadn't accepted the letter himself.

"How're you, Sarr?" Harry asked in passing as he untied the scroll from its leg. It nearly bit him, but Harry was used to it, so he resisted the urge to stick his tongue out childishly to show that he wouldn't fall for the same trick twice. As though it was possible, Sarr looked as if it wanted to roll its eyes. Harry scooted the white bowl where he stored some owl treats over and let Sarr collect them itself before it took off through the nearby window.

Shaking his head, Harry began to read the letter.

_I heard from Ron you're looking for Malfoy privately. Tell me, Harry, is there any reason for this? Because if there is . . . _

Harry sucked a deep breath upon reading the next sentence.

_I think I know where you might find him._

Shakily putting the parchment on the table, Harry took a seat and tried to process this new piece of information.

Ginny was an archaeology student—her desire to be free and see the world had made her jump at Bill's offer when he had said that his friend, Neil Leppert, was searching for an assistant. Two years later, she was helping Neil researching magical prehistoric sites all over the country, while working on her degree. Which was why, if she said she knew where Malfoy was, could it be that she knew where the old and closed-from-public Malfoy family cemetery was? Did that mean Malfoy had really . . .

Crushing that thought, Harry rose to grab a quill and ink. He jotted down a short note on the back of Ginny's letter.

_Can I meet you? _

He sent Eli, his grey owl, to deliver the note to Ginny. He knew Ginny wouldn't be able to reply back fast enough, for who knew where she might be right now, probably digging some mysterious grave or buried under mountains of research parchment. Hence, Harry found himself restless, pacing in his kitchen and sensing all of his exhaustion withering away as the seconds ticked by.

Finally fed up, he Apparated to Wiltshire before his brain could supply a better suggestion than to go to Malfoy Manor.

Stumbling upon landing, Harry caught himself before he could touch the Auror wards around the gate. He spelled them down, mounted the gate and broke into a run once he stepped on the other side.

The image of Rowle writhing on the floor flashed through his mind, and Ginny's letter kept on popping up. Yet now that Harry thought about it again, Mrs Malfoy wouldn't have been able to bury Malfoy. When had she even managed to escape from the Aurors' observation? But then again, no one knew when Malfoy had died, so it wasn't impossible that Mrs Malfoy had found a way to bury Malfoy in their secret cemetery before she died in the Manor. Harry felt sick at the thought, wishing he could just forget all these things and continue his normal life as an incompetent Auror.

He slipped through another layer of wards and the front door, half-expecting Malfoy to shoo him away again with a disdainful glare, but there wasn't any sign of him. Harry tried to ignore the disappointment that was creeping stubbornly inside.

"Er, Malfoy?" he called out. There wasn't any answer, so Harry bit his lower lip and proceeded to cross the entrance hall. Somehow, traversing Malfoy Manor was no longer hard because of his memory of the war. It was hard because the longer Harry counted the time he spent thinking about Malfoy alone in this place, the more he was convinced Malfoy was indeed a ghost. Despite the fact that he wanted to think otherwise, despite all the odd characteristics that Malfoy had that the other ghosts didn't, it was getting harder and harder to believe that Malfoy was still alive. And Harry hated that feeling.

It might have been half an hour or more, but Malfoy was still nowhere to be seen. The light from the sun slipping through the windows had started to darken. Maybe Malfoy was out somewhere, traumatizing Muggles by appearing out of nowhere and shouting 'boo' to children. Harry couldn't blame him if he wanted to relieve stress and go back to his old, dastardly self. It didn't mean Harry wouldn't give him hell if he found out Malfoy really did that, though.

Opening the window where he had last seen Malfoy, Harry perched himself on the sill and tried to empty his mind. Which was why he almost fell off the window when Malfoy emerged behind him, his cold presence bringing gooseflesh to the back of Harry's neck.

"Fucking hell," yelled Harry, jumping to his feet. "What're you doing?"

"I could ask the same of you," said Malfoy mockingly, "what are _you_ doing in my house?"

"Searching for you, why else?" snapped Harry. When Malfoy merely raised his stupidly elegant eyebrow, Harry felt heat sneaking up his neck.

"Thrilled as I am to have the Golden Boy chasing after me, I would have thought you would at least clean yourself up a bit before coming here."

Glancing down at the wrinkled Auror robes that he had worn for the past three days, Harry scowled. He had only brought three sets of uniform for a two weeks mission, because that was what a Cleaning Charm was for, wasn't it? Now though, under Malfoy's scrutiny, he wished he had at least had a shower and changed his clothes. "I just came back from a long mission," he said, refusing to think why the hell he cared to explain.

"Ah, should I feel flattered that you chose to visit me first thing after you came home?"

"Whatever you think, Malfoy." Harry rolled his eyes, fighting back the flush that was threatening to come. Seeing the irritating smirk on Malfoy's lips, though, Harry's scowl deepened. Then he remembered that two weeks ago Malfoy had looked almost shattered at this same spot, but now he looked strangely . . . normal. Like nothing serious had happened to him through the years. It took Harry a little more time to remember how in sixth year Malfoy had more or less managed to cover his frustration in public. Harry wondered if Malfoy still could perfect that mask even after his dea . . .

Shaking himself, Harry tore his eyes away from Malfoy.

"Cat got your tongue, Potter?"

"Where were you?" Harry asked. "I thought you weren't here."

Malfoy gave him a filthy look. "Not that it is any of your business, but I was in my parents' suites."

"Oh."

"I found a lot of my mother's books—a diary of some sorts and novels. Nothing really important that would catch your little friends' attention."

"Okay," Harry said. "Nice try, Malfoy, because it's so natural to remind people about how _not_ important your discovery is."

"That's because you always assume I do something suspicious."

"I don't," Harry said, and added when Malfoy narrowed his eyes accusingly, "all right, maybe I do, but this makes you even more suspicious."

"If you're only here to satisfy your pathetic need to convict a dead ex-Death Eater, then why don't you go home?" said Malfoy, floating backward to press his back on the opposite wall and crossing his arms. "This is getting ludicrous, Potter. What do you want from me?"

"I—" Harry hesitated, not knowing what he wanted. "I saw how Rowle died . . ."

"Brilliant, that would make your fantasy about my death more vivid, wouldn't it?" Malfoy sneered.

"_Fantasy_?" Harry growled. "Where the fuck did you get you that from?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe from the fact that you're so obsessed about my death?" said Malfoy. "Besides, shouldn't you be celebrating the fact that one more Death Eater has been eliminated?"

"Fuck, Malfoy, I'm not here to celebrate or anything, he was the last Death Eater and—"

"—even more a reason to celebrate, isn't it?"

"—all I can think is just how I don't want you to—"

"—what, Potter? Don't want me to what?" asked Malfoy sharply.

Biting the inside of his lower lip, Harry curled his fingers into fists, breathing hard through his nose. He didn't even know what he didn't want Malfoy to, aside from maybe _die_. And maybe he was here to assure himself that Malfoy was still here, and hoping it wouldn't change even after he witnessed Rowle's death, after imagining how Malfoy probably died, too. After reading what Ginny's letter implied. But it wasn't something Harry could freely confess.

"Whatever, Malfoy," said Harry at last, taking a deep breath and letting his shoulders sag a little. "Didn't expect you'd understand anyway." He looked away from Malfoy's challenging eyes.

"That's rich, Potter," Malfoy snarled. "You came here strutting around like you own the bloody Manor and now you're talking as if _I'm_ the one who should be more understanding?" He threw his hands up in a dramatic manner when Harry reluctantly glanced at him. "You're mental, I just have no other words."

"I'm not strutting around." Harry sighed. "Fine, I'm sorry for—I don't know—visiting you here? Making you think I want to take over the place? But I—"

"Don't make me laugh by acting like you care," said Malfoy, laughing dryly just to prove his point.

"I'm not," said Harry with a glare, "acting, that is."

Malfoy sniffed at that, staring into the dark hallway that seemed endless, appearing like a completely alive person and not at all a ghost. He didn't say anything for a long moment, as though he had forgotten that Harry was there, watching him closely like he had nothing better to do. Then Malfoy shook his head, throwing Harry an unreadable gaze. "I'm not going to humour you by taking part in whatever it is you're planning, Potter. But if you enjoy coming here that much, then be my guest, it's not as if your friends _and_ yourself haven't snatched everything away from this place—from _us_ already."

"Voldemort was the one who snatched everything away."

Malfoy gave a derisive laugh. Shaking his head again, his eyes somehow turned sorrowful, regretful, although Harry could have sworn there were many other emotions behind that dry smile. "He wasn't, because he was a destroyer. Don't you understand that, Potter?"

Harry opened his mouth, but couldn't find anything to say. Malfoy shrugged, turning his gaze away.

"Do whatever you like," said Malfoy after a while. Before Harry could reply to that, though, he backed away farther, sinking into the wall and vanishing. Harry was left staring dumbly at the empty wall, wondering what the fuck had just happened.

He couldn't shake the image of Malfoy's sad eyes from his mind. Fuck.

Not wanting to spend more time trying to figure out what Malfoy meant and why Harry even wanted to understand, he rubbed his face and walked out of the Manor. It took him a pretty spectacular fall over a horse statue before he remembered to cast _Lumos_.

**. .**

**. .**

At Grimmauld Place, Ginny was waiting for him. She curled on the sofa near the hearth, skimming through a Quidditch magazine. Harry hadn't had a chance to speak before she sprung onto her feet and crushed him into a hug.

"It's been so long," she said with a laugh.

"Yeah," said Harry, feeling guilty that seeing her made him think about Malfoy even more. "Yeah, are you—er—well?"

Ginny released him, raising an eyebrow tauntingly. "You didn't seem to be interested in hearing about me in your letter, though. And Harry, ew, you need a shower."

Harry flushed. "Uh, yeah, been a long day. Should I . . ." He waved vaguely upstairs.

"Yes, you should. Take a nice shower, change your clothes and I'll be waiting here for you with tea."

"Okay," mumbled Harry. He was _dying_ to know about Malfoy and he nearly asked Ginny to just get to the point, because he couldn't be arsed to care how he looked right now. But his respect for her stopped him. Ginny deserved the respect—she had been really nice even after their break up, when she had no reason to be. So Harry rushed upstairs and took a shower in record time, almost tripping as he put on his washed out blue jeans in haste.

Down in the kitchen, Ginny was nursing her tea, staring at him amusedly while Harry nervously dried his hair with a towel. He could feel the cold water dripping onto his shoulders, soaking his white t-shirt.

"Wow," Ginny said, "not even ten minutes, Harry. I doubt it was more than five."

"Ginny, I need to—"

"Tea, Harry," said Ginny, pushing a cup over the table. Harry reluctantly took a seat across from her and reached for the cup.

"Okay, so, Ginny, I need—"

"Tell me first what's so important about it that you've become this jittery."

Clenching his jaw, Harry resisted from lashing out at her. He was _too_ tired for this. "It's one of my missions, Ginny."

"But you're doing this without Robards knowing, aren't you?" Ginny raised an eyebrow. "Hermione wants to know what's on your mind."

"Sure it's not just you?" snapped Harry. Upon Ginny's sceptical glare, Harry sighed, rubbing his nape. "Sorry, but this is important for me. Please?"

Ginny's eyes softened and she smiled slightly. "All right, so you want to be all mysterious right now. Reminding me of old days, you know? Only this time even Ron and Hermione don't know what you're doing."

"I'm not doing anything," said Harry resignedly. "I only want to know where Malfoy is. Because Rowle is—the Death Eater I was supposed to capture for the last mission . . . he died."

Ginny didn't say anything, but her eyes had that shine Harry knew so well every time she was being sympathetic to Harry for being the bloody Chosen One.

"Harry, I still think you should tell Robards, or maybe _I_ should. Because this is a big case, isn't it?"

"It is, but—"

"You have no idea how Hermione is going to react to this. She still thinks you shouldn't act by yourself, you know. I heard her having a row with Ron just last weekend."

"Yes, I _know_ how she's going to react, but Ginny, I need your help," he tried again.

"Ugh. Fine, Harry." She sighed. "You should be glad I still haven't told anyone. What do you want to know?"

"Thank you, I appreciate it," said Harry. Ginny nodded and gave him the chance to continue. He took a moment to brace himself. "Did you . . . find Malfoy in the Malfoy cemetery?"

Ginny tilted her head, staring at Harry for far longer than necessary. Harry refused to back down from her stare.

"I know where that cemetery is," she said. "Neil has been there once ages ago because the Malfoys needed him to break some ancient cryptic codes. I was shown the codes and they were brilliant, I tell you," then she paused, narrowing her eyes. "But no, Harry, I don't think you'd find Malfoy there."

Releasing his breath, Harry felt his bones nearly melt in relief. Malfoy was not buried. He was not in the cemetery. Harry thought he could kiss even Kreacher right now.

"I don't think he died, if that's what you think," said Ginny again. "Why would you suspect he was buried?"

"I don't know. I mean," Harry said, wringing his hands vaguely, overwhelmed by that addition of information. Malfoy had _not_ died. "I just thought since you're digging graves every day . . ."

"Harry, I do _not_ dig graves every day. What do you think archaeologists are?" said Ginny, clearly offended. "Honestly!"

"You sounded like Hermione," Harry pointed out. "But where is he? In a hospital?"

"No," said Ginny, sounding bemused. "Why would you think he'd be in a hospital? Harry, you're acting weird!"

"Then where is he?" Harry almost lost his patience. If Malfoy wasn't dead, if he wasn't in a hospital either, then where the bloody hell was his body?

"Well, this is going to be shocking," said Ginny, suddenly forgetting about her anger and whispering with a scandalised tone. She bent lower over the table, motioning Harry to mirror her.

"What . . .?"

Ginny's eyes lit up. "Listen. You're not going to believe this."

**. .**

**. .**

Harry arrived in Callington early in the morning. Ginny had told him Neil's colleague's Floo address, which turned to be a B&B. The owner was a chubby, middle aged woman, whose brown curls were tied up in a low pony tail. She hugged him when Harry emerged from the hearth, telling him how much she was grateful for his heroism during the war. Harry had to endure forty-five long minutes of listening to her chatting about her daughters and sons and grandchildren, before he could extract himself from her. He made a mental note to take the risk of long distance Apparition next time.

Ginny had drawn him a map. But it wasn't that difficult to find his destination—it wasn't really far from the B&B. The building was modest and painted in beige, with a thatched roof. It had three stories, with rows of windows on the first and second floor, telling Harry that there were a number of small rooms. It had a nice garden, not too big but not too small—enough for children to play and run around without having to crash into something every five minutes. An old, rickety swing was placed under a balding tree, red leaves scattered around it.

Stepping up onto the front steps, Harry took a breath before knocking the door. There weren't any sounds from inside, so Harry tried harder. Before he finished knocking three times, though, a black-haired woman opened the door.

"Yes?" she asked. "How can I help you?"

"Er," said Harry, wiping his sweaty palms against his dark brown coat. "I'm here to meet someone."

"Who?" asked the woman again. Her blue eyes narrowed. "You're not saying one of our kids gave you trouble, are you?"

"Trouble?" asked Harry, baffled. He cleared his throat before continuing, "No, er, actually, I really am looking for someone. I'm Harry Potter." He offered his hand.

The woman took his hand. "Leah Hayton. Who are you looking for, Mr Potter? If you want to talk about adoption, I'm sorry to say but the head of this orphanage is currently on a trip."

"I'm not really here for adoption business, but I'm looking for a man. About your age, actually," said Harry.

Hayton wrinkled her forehead. "About my age? Then he must be our staff. We have three men helping us here every day, but today is Ian's turn."

"No, no, if he's really here, his name is Dra—"

"Oh, that's him!" Hayton waved ecstatically at someone behind Harry. Turning around, Harry couldn't believe what he saw.

It was unmistakably Draco Malfoy. But at the same time, he was _not_ Draco Malfoy. Because Draco Malfoy wouldn't let his fringe loose and messy like that, wouldn't wear a washed out denim jacket on top of a black t-shirt that had seen better days, or trainers Harry was sure would have been white if the dirt hadn't been that thick. And more importantly, Draco Malfoy should not have been this—alive when his soul was out of his body.

Really, Harry had been sceptical the entire night when Ginny had told him about this. He couldn't counter her because if he did, he would have had to explain why he was so sure Malfoy wouldn't be walking around in a small Muggle town. In the end he came anyway, simply because he was curious. And because if he didn't at least try, that meant he was back to square one—not knowing whether Malfoy was alive or not. But he didn't expect to really find _Malfoy_ here.

What was disconcerting, however, was the way Malfoy saw him as though Harry was of no significance in his life.

"Hey, Leah," said Malfoy, raising his hand in a careless wave.

"Ian, this is Mr Potter, and Mr Potter, this is Ian Raines," said Hayton. "I'm sorry, Mr Potter, who are you looking for again?"

"Er—right," said Harry, unable to tear his gaze away from the flat look Malfoy—_Raines _gave him. "I'm actually . . . looking for him."

Raines raised that stupid Malfoy eyebrow at that.

"Oh, that's nice. Why don't you two come in, then?" Hayton said again, her tone was confused, but Harry couldn't care less.

"Looking for me?" Raines asked. "Come on then. We can talk anywhere but inside."

"Don't be ridiculous, it's getting cold outside!" Hayton chided. "I'll make you two tea."

"No, I'm not letting any of the kids eavesdrop on me again," said Raines, rolling his eyes good-naturedly.

"Actually, it's fine, we can talk anywhere you like," said Harry hastily. Hayton huffed in annoyance.

"Fine, have at it."

"Great," said Raines.

"Thank you, Ms Hayton," said Harry.

"Don't mention it. And it's Leah, I kinda hate that surname, you know," Leah said hastily, then glared at Raines. "Don't blame me if you catch a cold again."

"Shut up, will you?" Raines said dismissively, giving Harry a side long glance before he turned around and gestured Harry to follow him.

"Um, all right, Leah, you can call me Harry, too, and I'm, um—"

"Yeah, sure, Harry, just follow him, he's a bit impatient," said Leah. Nodding at her, Harry couldn't help but notice the way she looked at Raines's retreating back. It was something like . . . worry?

Shaking his head, Harry turned and tried to focus on the man walking before him. They took the small path through the garden and rounded a corner. They were at the back of the orphanage building, and the wall there was completely plain aside from one bench strategically placed there against the wall. Raines sat on it, crossing his legs calmly. Harry shuffled his feet nervously, thinking about how to broach the delicate subject.

"The bench won't bite you," said Raines.

Harry couldn't resist it any longer.

"What's your plan, Malfoy? Why are you acting like a Muggle and pretending to be dead? Is it Voldemort's plan? Is that it? Is that why you're lying to me?"

Raines stared at him blankly, mouth slightly open. He looked genuinely like he had no idea what Harry was talking about, but Harry _knew_ he should not trust this man that easily.

"Are you even talking in English?" Raines asked eventually. "What's Muggle? Vol—voldemort?"

"You can drop the act," said Harry, jaw clenched. "I can prove that you're Malfoy." He cut the distance, snatching Raines' left arm and rolling the jacket sleeve up.

"Hey," yelled Raines. Harry tuned him out, though, for the arm in his hand was clear from any Dark Marks.

". . . how?" asked Harry in shock. There was no way Malfoy could get rid of the Dark Mark. His ghost even said so himself. But again, there was a possibility that Malfoy's ghost lied to him. Nevertheless, if it was indeed Voldemort's plan, it was so unlikely of him. He wouldn't have let anyone get rid of the Mark—it was just not his style.

"Hello?" The arm in his hands was suddenly pulled back, leaving Harry to stare at his open palms stupidly. "Are you on something?"

"Uh—sorry," said Harry reluctantly. He took a step back and found Raines watching him funny. "I thought you were my—"

"Lover? Boyfriend?" offered Raines.

"Schoolmate, actually," corrected Harry with passion.

"Ah, but you were so excited," said Raines, shrugging. Harry watched him in silence as he pulled out a box of cigarettes and a lighter from one of his many cargo pockets. "Want one?"

Shaking his head, Harry kept silent.

This man was not Malfoy—_not_ Malfoy. He talked too casually, lacking the posh drawl Malfoy had patented. He lit a cigarette and took a long drag of it with practiced ease, and he was too Muggle, too expressionless and careless about everything. He was so many things that wasn't Malfoy, and yet . . . why would he look a lot like Malfoy? And did that mean Harry had to search again for Malfoy's body? Did that mean it was still possible that Malfoy was dead?

Fuck. Falling after getting your hopes up was the cruellest thing ever. Was this what Malfoy felt that day when he realised he was not a soul?

Harry wanted to laugh at himself. Of course not. Malfoy was hurt more because it was about him. And why would Harry feel hurt when it was only about _Malfoy_ anyway?

"Cat got your tongue?" asked Raines, and Harry started. Raines was looking at him with calm eyes, a cigarette dangling between his fingers.

"You—but you sounded so much like him, saying that," said Harry, raking his fingers through his hair in distress.

"What? Cat got your tongue?" Raines laughed, but it was lacking of humour. It wasn't mocking either—just an empty string of laughter that made Harry uneasy. "Listen, plenty of people say that phrase. Not exactly a property of your boyfriend, is it?"

"I know," said Harry through gritted teeth. "It's just—you _sound_ like him, _look_ like him. But you're not him."

"Yeah?"

"I made a mistake, he's not—he's not like you. He's much, much more . . . "

"Attractive? Kind? Sexy?" asked Raines, waving his hand dismissively. "Well, good for him then."

Harry stared at Raines for a long minute, then he sighed, taking a seat on the bench and putting his head in his hands. "I don't know. I don't _fucking_ know."

"Ah," there was the sound of Raines taking a long drag, "but how did you know about me?"

Harry looked up, meeting Raines's eyes as he blew the smoke. "My friend—she's an archaeologist, she was here during her research and saw you accidentally."

"Archaeologist?" Raines let out that empty laughter again. "Looking for Celliwig, was she?"

"Maybe," Harry said. "Maybe she was looking for something else, I didn't really ask."

"They believe in myths, that lot."

"Don't insult my friend—"

"Why?" asked Raines flatly. "Because I'll ruin your perfect boyfriend's image?"

Curling his fingers into fists, Harry narrowed his eyes. "You know what, I—"

"Monica," said Raines suddenly, looking past Harry's shoulder. "Hey, why are you here?"

Irked, Harry turned to see who the hell had just interrupted him and found a small red-haired girl, maybe about five years old, hugging her tattered teddy bear and staring forlornly at Raines. She shifted to regard Harry, letting her curls sweep her tiny shoulders.

"Monica, you're not dressed enough to be out here." Raines pointed at Monica's frilly blue dress, which was a bit too short on her. "Let's get you back inside, shall we?"

Monica nodded, still watching Harry warily. Harry smiled awkwardly, but Monica only widened her eyes in fright and began to run.

"Aw, shit," said Raines.

"What? What happened?"

"Listen, I need to get back. She's afraid of strangers." Raines rose to his feet, his eyes never leaving where Monica ran off to.

"Why? Did something happen to her?"

"Don't assume every orphan has a tragic past worthy of a bloody novel," said Raines, shooting Harry a look. "That's rude. She's _fine_. Just a bit shy."

"Oh," said Harry. "Okay, sorry."

Raines shrugged, stepping on his cigarette butt. "Well, catch you later then. Or not."

"How long have you been working here?" Harry asked before Raines could spin on his heels.

"Huh? Why?"

"Just—have you been in Callington your whole life?"

Raines looked at him for a long time, his expression impassive and didn't give away anything Harry would like to read. When Raines finally talked, he gave a small smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Been in this building all my life, in fact."

"Oh."

"Wish you good luck finding your boyfriend then," said Raines, spinning around and waving carelessly at Harry.

"He's not my boyfriend," said Harry, annoyed, though he was a hundred percent sure Raines couldn't hear his mumble. Sighing, Harry scrubbed at his nape and forced himself not to crack his skull open by banging his head onto the wall. "Are the people with that face always annoying?" he muttered, knowing full well that one of those annoying people was someone he didn't really find annoying lately.

He was totally, _totally_ fucked up.

**. .**

**. .**

"You look more awful than usual, Potter. Never knew it was possible."

Harry sat on the carpeted floor, watching Malfoy pacing around in the sunlit, wide hallway—his eyebrows high and his back straight—completely, effortlessly graceful. And that drawl . . . the annoying, lazy tone that grated on Harry's nerves, and the stare that screamed of disdain . . . those were all Malfoy. Malfoy who tried hard to be composed even when he was on the verge of breaking down, who loved his family and couldn't kill Dumbledore. Malfoy who looked more alive than Raines did even though he was only a ghost.

"Do you—have cousins or—family in Callington?" Harry asked.

"Callington?" Malfoy paused in his tracks, furrowing his brow. "No, I suppose not, although I can't really be sure. The Malfoy is an old family, we marry many other old pureblood families, it's not impossible that someone from a branch of the family lives there."

"Do the Malfoys never marry Muggles?"

"Why?" asked Malfoy sharply. "Is this a conversation to bring up about how we're a—"

"No, I'm only curious," said Harry quickly, and he didn't really care if his eyes looked like he was pleading. He was too tired, too weary about this whole thing. "I need to know."

Malfoy studied him, eyes narrowed and hands clasped behind his back. "Even if there was, they'd probably been erased from the family tree."

"So it's possible, if—say, you have a Muggle family?"

"Well, isn't my cousin Nymphadora Tonks enough of a proof for you? And don't forget, the Malfoys can even have werewolves as family!"

"Tonks is a Black and don't you dare—"

"My mother is a Black and she married a Malfoy. That's what a family tree is for, because the main family of Malfoy is extinct, Potter!"

Harry breathed hard, hands clenching on his thighs. "I—I don't mean to—" He shook his head, raking his fingers through his hair. "Fuck this."

"What the bleeding hell are you talking about?" Now even Malfoy sounded upset. "What're you trying to tell me?"

"Yesterday—I found someone who looked just like you," said Harry. "I—just—I mean, he was practically _you_, only he _wasn'_t you!"

"What?" Malfoy bent down, forcing Harry to meet his eyes. "What?"

"I thought I could find your body in Callington, but no, it was just another person who looked just like your clone, and—"

"My body is in Callington?"

"No, didn't you listen to a word I said?" said Harry, desperate. "He was alive, and a Muggle, and he _smoked_, for fuck's sake—"

"A Muggle," Malfoy repeated, his forehead creased and his eyes seemed so far away, as if his mind was now running a mile per second. "Who looked like me."

"Yes, but it doesn't mean anything because—" Harry paused when he noticed Malfoy's eyes slowly turning back at him. "Does it mean something . . .?"

Malfoy didn't answer him for what seemed a very long time, before he straightened up, looking thoughtful. "Perhaps I should tell you something, Potter."

"What?" asked Harry, suddenly breathless. His heart thumped so hard against his ribcage that it was almost painful.

"This—if what you said is true, then I think I know what that means." Malfoy looked straight at Harry. "But I need your word not to tell anyone."

**. .**

**. .**

Harry traced the page—pristine white with a hint of honeysuckle scent—and was sure his eyes were so big now as he read the elegant handwriting on it. The book was thin and beautifully crafted, with a grey cover and a silver ribbon attached to the binding. It looked just like what he could expect for Narcissa Malfoy's diary, but that wasn't what took his breath away.

It was the content—the step by step instruction on how to strip one's magic completely.

"Your mother tried to make you a Muggle," said Harry, still not believing what he read.

"Or a squib, because apparently, it was the only way to get rid of the Dark Mark."

"Because the curse—the Dark Mark—only ate magic—"

"—therefore I could be saved if I no longer had magic," finished Malfoy. "Or that's what my mother deduced."

"Isn't magic a core of wizards and witches? Wouldn't we die if we didn't have it anymore, like, like what would happen if I didn't give your wand back?"

"Of course not. This is different than with my wand, it's a ritual," said Malfoy. "It's invented to save, not to kill."

"Wow," Harry said in awe, yet he still wasn't really sure what to think. "So—so that makes you—"

"That's the tricky part, Potter," said Malfoy. "If the ritual succeeded, then my magic should have vanished entirely. But it seems like my mother failed, somehow, and so here I am."

"You're Malfoy's magic . . ."

"And memories, and probably a bit of his soul, too." Malfoy nodded. "Did this person you found in Callington remember anything about magic?"

"No, he seemed to have forgotten everything—he didn't have the Dark Mark either."

Malfoy nodded again. "That's what I think. My entire life consisted of magic ever since I could remember. If my mother stripped magic completely from my body and tried to make me a Muggle, it'd make me forget everything—and here, I—the magic—have all of Draco Malfoy's memories."

"But stripping one's magic doesn't have to take the memories, too, does it?"

"Mother probably wanted me to live, Potter," said Malfoy quietly, gazing at the huge four poster bed that stood coldly in Malfoy's parents' equally cold chamber. "Really live." He laughed bitterly. "Pathetic isn't it? We, with all of our Pureblood beliefs, in the end have to be Muggles in order to live?"

"But . . ." Harry shook his head, at a loss. "But still—how could your body end up in Callington? And this bloke—he said he's been in the orphanage all his life!"

"He probably lied," said Malfoy flatly. "Or he probably didn't, if what he meant by 'all his life' was the short span he lived since he woke up without memories."

"God, that's just so . . ." said Harry, shaking his head. "Are you sure this guy is you?"

Malfoy stared at him, chewing his lower lip. "No. This could be another false hope. I wasn't planning to make anything out of this information, but since you said you met someone who looked like me . . ."

"We should check," said Harry, advancing himself towards the startled Malfoy. "You can go, can't you? Let's see if this bloke really is you. You'll know yourself, right?"

"I should be able to recognise myself, yes," said Malfoy, looking uneasy at the short distance left between his face and Harry's. "I want to see him as well."

"Good," said Harry, nodding to himself. "Good, if it's you, then we might be able to bring you back to life."

"What?"

"You. Back to life."

"Potter, if that bloke is me, then I _am_ alive."

"But he's _not_ you!"

"That's the whole point. He needs to not be me, in order to keep on living," said Malfoy very slowly. "You don't understand this, do you?"

"No and I don't want to," snapped Harry. "Are you really fine with this? That you'll only be a piece of—magic, memories, soul, whatever? Don't you want to be the real Malfoy again?"

"Well yes, but if _I'm_ the magic, then the real Draco Malfoy is out there, _alive_," shouted Malfoy. "I was supposed to vanish!"

"But do you really want that?" yelled Harry, grabbing Malfoy's shoulders, pushing him against the white wall. "Do you really _want_ that?"

Malfoy opened his mouth and closed it again, blinking repeatedly and there was the wind swirling around them. His body was solid in Harry's hands, cold and rigid and weird, but it was _Malfoy_.

"That bloke is Ian Raines. He's an apathetic git who looks like he can't be arsed to comb his hair or have a bloody expression on his face. He isn't you, he _isn't_."

"Potter—"

"We'll prove if he really has your body, and we'll find a way to save you. Okay?" said Harry, tightening his grip on Malfoy's shoulders. "Okay?"

Malfoy stared at him in silence, his lips trembling so slightly. The wind brushed against Harry's skin gently, as if it was the reflection of Malfoy's own feelings inside—unsure, helpless, afraid. But in the end he quirked a small smile, calling back the wind into nothingness.

"You're one to talk about combing hair."

"At least I try," said Harry, "and he isn't me."

"He's not." Malfoy nodded.

"And the way he is now, he's not you either."

Malfoy didn't answer him, and Harry didn't expect him to. He rubbed his thumbs against Malfoy's shoulders for a second and then pulled away.

"We'll find a way," said Harry more to himself.

**. .**

**********_To Be Continued_**

**. .**

Thank you for reading! Feedbacks will be appreciated, and please stay tuned for the next chapter! :)


	4. Four

Belated Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! I hope you enjoy this chapter! :D

* * *

**And the Clock keeps Ticking**

**Four**

The ticking clock was so loud in Hermione's office. Harry didn't know what had possessed him that he had obligingly come as he was told, but now he regretted it. No one should challenge Hermione when they knew they were hiding something. Harry drummed his fingers against his thigh, trying to nonchalantly avoid her gaze and failing miserably.

"Harry," she said from behind her desk, and something told Harry that she was far from calm. "How is your headache?"

Harry studiously watched Hermione's clock. It was ten minutes fast. Why was it ten minutes fast again? Probably because Hermione hated being late. Yes, that would be it. But the ticking was a little too loud for such a tiny clock. How did one make it stop ticking that loud? Smash it with a Bludger?

"Harry?"

"Hm?"

"The headache?"

"What headache?"

"You know what I mean. The dreams?"

"Oh yeah, they stopped."

There were about ten ticks before something even louder forced Harry to face Hermione. Looked like she just slammed her hands on the desk.

"They stopped," said Hermione slowly. "How did they stop?"

"Er, they just kind of . . . did?"

"After more than half a year? They stopped just like that?" There was a warning in Hermione's voice. "When did that happen?"

"About two or three months ago . . ." Harry shrugged, drumming his thigh faster. "It doesn't matter."

"Harry, stop it," Hermione said sternly.

"Stop what?" Harry blinked innocently.

"This!" said Hermione. "You're acting bizarrely! First you were on extremely dangerous potions—"

"Oh, bloody—" Harry spluttered, "they're not _extremely_ dangerous!"

"—and now the dreams just stopped!" Hermione said loudly. "Then you avoided me after you got back from your mission, and I know you were trying to find Malfoy, but now that everyone is in Malfoy's search party because he's the last one, you look just . . ." She made vague, frustrated gestures with her hands, ". . . like you don't care about it anymore!"

"Because I realised it really doesn't matter!" Harry crossed his arms over his chest. "The dreams stopped, you should be happy for me. And I'm in the search party, so don't say I'm not looking for him!"

"I'm happy, I am," said Hermione, sounding tired, "but you're hiding something, I know."

"Look," said Harry, "you want me not to act independently about Malfoy and follow Robards' instructions, so I am. I'm searching for Malfoy with the team, okay?"

"But this whole Malfoy thing is just weird," said Hermione. "You know Harry, Hannah has done a thorough check of Muggle hospitals just like you told her to, and still no trace. We haven't been able to pick up Malfoy's magical signature anywhere, and we can't find anything about him on the internet—"

"—magical signature?" Harry perked up. "Is that how the Unspeakables search for him? Using his magical signature?"

"Well yes, he's a wizard, he's bound to leave one wherever he goes. It's basic, Harry. You should have paid more attention in the meetings. The only obvious trace we've got so far is inside the Manor, but that's normal considering he lived there."

"Even though the Manor has been stripped of its magic?"

"Yes, Malfoy had lived there for a very long time."

"Like—like maybe if we checked Hogwarts, then we could find his magical signature there, too? Or mine, or yours?"

Hermione looked at him oddly. "Yes, that's correct."

"But my magical signature wasn't in the . . . the restaurant we visited three months ago?"

"There would have been, but it would be so weak. Which is why Malfoy's got to be moving frequently so that he doesn't leave a traceable signature."

"Okay," said Harry, sighing inwardly with relief. So long as people thought the magical signatures in the Manor were only some old traces of Malfoy's magic, the fact that Malfoy's magic itself lived there would still be safe. And the fact that Ian Raines didn't have any magic meant the Ministry wouldn't be aware of his existence. Even if Malfoy went somewhere in his ghost form, the Ministry wouldn't detect his magical signature. Harry should still have time to find a way to bring Malfoy back to life again.

"Okay?" asked Hermione, her expression clearly one of disbelief. "It's _not_ okay! You're hiding something, and somehow . . ." she paused to throw him a sharp look. "Somehow I get the feeling that everything is connected."

Once again, Harry didn't know whether he should hate or love Hermione for being so smart.

"What? Are you telling me there's something about Malfoy?" asked Harry, trying hard to sound annoyed. "Not going to think I'm being silly again like in sixth year?"

"Actually, yes, I think you're being silly, because this is different from sixth year," Hermione snapped. "What I want to say is, I think you're obsessed—again—but in a different way. You're getting better at hiding it, aren't you, Harry?"

"You just told me I'd lost interest in finding Malfoy, but now you're accusing me of being obsessed?" asked Harry, aghast. "Bloody hell, Hermione."

She shrugged. "All I'm saying is . . . it's suspicious. The way you're acting and everything."

"Then have it your way. I'm not doing anything I'm not supposed to!"

"Are you being completely honest?"

"Hermione," Harry half-whined.

"All right. Fine," said Hermione, her shoulders drooped. "I'll pretend I haven't noticed anything. But . . ." She reached for Harry's hand, and he had to awkwardly uncross his arms to hold her hand. "Remember that I—Ron and I—we are your best friends, Harry."

Harry stared at her. The guilt was growing inside again—stronger and unrelenting. For a moment he considered telling her everything, but . . . would she understand? No—Hermione, let alone Ron, wouldn't understand. Even Harry himself still didn't fully understand. But that didn't matter. It was about doing the right thing, not for other people, but for himself, because—because he had finally stopped hating and wanted to do something. Wasn't that all that mattered?

"Of course," said Harry. "I know."

**. .**

**. .**

"I need the books you confiscated from us, Potter," said Malfoy. "This isn't going anywhere. My mother didn't write down the last step she had to take to complete the ritual, and we need to know what caused her to fail if we want to reverse this whole thing. And there's still the problem that if I were to go back to my body, the curse would be activated again."

Harry looked up from where he was sprawling on the sofa, pretending to read Narcissa Malfoy's diary for the hundredth time. Malfoy was standing forlornly in the middle of the library, playing with the books that were floating around him. "I know, I've thought about sneaking up there this Sunday. But what kind of books should I be looking for?"

"Old rituals, old magic, maybe even necromancy."

"But you're not dead, why necromancy?"

"Because the idea is kind of similar—we're going to put my magic, my soul into my body," said Malfoy, shrugging. "Although I'm fairly sure my mother would have written down everything . . ."

"Fine, I'll do what I can, but before that . . ." Harry sat up to rest his elbows on his knees. "Let's confirm what we need to confirm first, okay? It's been so long and all we did is research."

Malfoy stopped his gentle, twirling wind and the books dropped to the floor. He looked as if he were taking a deep breath, hands slipping inside his trouser pockets. "Of course. Why do you think I asked you to come today?"

"To meet Raines?"

Malfoy nodded. "Yeah. Better to get this over with. It's only a matter of whether I really am a ghost or only magic, isn't it? I believed that I'd been dead for more than six months, what could be worse?"

Harry didn't believe a single thing Malfoy said, though. How could he, when Malfoy looked far from calm?

"I've known you for years, there's no way I would fail to recognise you."

"Potter." Malfoy laughed dryly. "We were not the best of friends in Hogwarts, how could you be so sure?"

"Then how could you recognise me that time when I was captured?" asked Harry, and Malfoy's shoulders stiffened. "I know you recognised me. You lied for me. Just like your mother lied for you. It's not that hard to believe, is it, that I'd know you even when you didn't look like you?"

"There are people who look similar," said Malfoy. "Ian Raines might not be me."

"He is you. But he's _not_ you, because the real you is—is the one who stands before me," said Harry. "Trust me?"

Malfoy looked pained, torn, and Harry hated that. It made him want to touch, to feel, to make sure Malfoy was all right. To make sure he was there—_alive_.

"It's too much of you to ask me to trust you," said Malfoy eventually, a little smile playing on his lips. Harry thought his heart would burst at the rare display. "Guide me to the orphanage."

"Okay." Nodding, Harry turned on his feet and extended his hand. "I'll Apparate us."

"This is weird," said Malfoy, seemingly reluctant to place his hand on Harry's forearm. Harry refused to think about it further, so he Apparated even before Malfoy could readjust his grip around Harry. When he arrived at a secluded corner near the orphanage, however, Harry was alone.

"Malfoy?" he called out, looking everywhere. But the neighbourhood was silent. Harry ran towards the orphanage, beginning to panic. Maybe he had made a mistake—if somehow ghosts, souls, magic, whatever Malfoy was, weren't able to Apparate. Maybe Splinching for non-solid forms meant to disappear forever. He was about to shout louder when a tap on his shoulder made him jump.

"Looking for someone?" said Malfoy—

No, it was Raines. Harry gritted his teeth because he was _almost_ glad to know Malfoy was still there. But it wasn't him.

"Yeah," Harry said instead, knowing Raines wouldn't understand anyway. "He just—disappeared."

"Maybe he left you while you were daydreaming?" Raines hazarded a guess. "You look like the scatterbrain type."

"I think that'd be you," Harry retorted.

"Me? No, I'm just not a caring person," said Raines with a dismissive wave. "Why are you here by the way?"

"It's none of your business."

"Is it?" Raines let out that empty laughter again. "I thought you were here because you still think I'm your missing boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend," said Harry tightly. "And he's not you."

"Really?" Raines shrugged. "I don't even care," he said, adjusting his washed out denim jacket. "Oh, the kids are playing football."

Harry followed Raines's gaze, seeing past the open gate into the garden. Five boys, who looked like they were about nine or ten years old, were chasing a ball and laughing. Monica and another little girl were sitting on the front stairs.

"Odd sport, football is," said Raines, grabbing for a cigarette in his jacket pocket. "I hate it."

Harry snorted. "Because you can't play?"

"I've always felt my feet were made for something better than kicking a stupid round thing on the ground."

"Yeah? Like what?"

"Don't know. Like kicking the ground to fly."

Harry looked up, startled. Raines seemed undisturbed, casually blowing the smoke and staring at the kids. "Flying?" asked Harry at last.

"Stupid, huh? Who cares, that's my dream."

"Your dream is to fly?" Harry asked carefully. "With what?"

"Don't know. Not a plane, not wings either." Raines shrugged. "Doesn't matter."

"Magic," said Harry, not taking his eyes off Raines. "Maybe you need magic."

"Bugger, you're loonier than I am," said Raines, his lips quirked into a small smile. Harry clenched a fist, because—that smile was Malfoy's. The one that made his stomach churn and his heart jump around.

"Well, if you're not here for me . . ." Raines let his words hang, waving nonchalantly at Harry. He shuffled through the gate, joking with the boys and bending down to lift Monica. Until he vanished behind the front door with the kids, Harry could only foolishly watch him in silence.

He probably hated Raines more than he ever hated Malfoy.

"That's—my body, Potter," said Malfoy behind him, his voice sounding so close to Harry's ear. Harry shivered.

"Where were you?" He spun around, doing the best he could to mask the overwhelming relief and the unwelcome flush.

"I think it just took longer for me to reform my . . ." Malfoy waved distractedly towards his own body. ". . . current form."

"So you saw him? Raines?"

"Yes, that was me. He is me," said Malfoy, his eyes full of longing as he gazed at the closed door. "I think he needs lessons in how to dress."

"That's not important." Harry would have rolled his eyes if only Malfoy hadn't looked so sad. "We need to get you back to your body."

Malfoy stared at him, his eyebrows furrowed and his lips pressed together tightly. He remained that way until Harry wanted to snap his fingers just to call Malfoy back to Earth. When Malfoy spoke, it was with a low, soft voice that belied a lot of emotions. "He's so . . . apathetic. He doesn't have any personality, does he?"

"No." Harry couldn't agree more.

"But what can he do? His memory and basically everything that formed him . . . have disappeared," said Malfoy. "He's a new person. He might have picked up his new habits and everything from the people around him."

"Maybe," Harry trod carefully, not knowing where this conversation was going.

"But that's probably for the best. It's better for him—me . . . Merlin, this is difficult." Malfoy shook his head. "But it's better to live anew than be a loathed ex-Death Eater."

"What?" Harry asked in disbelief. "What are you talking about?"

"He's alive, Potter, he doesn't look like he's unhappy, and he's _alive_," said Malfoy, sounding desperate. "He doesn't need me, because I—I—" Malfoy blinked his eyes, refusing to look at Harry. It might have been his imagination, but Harry thought the way Malfoy blinked and sniffed was more heart-wrenching than even tears would be. "I'm only magic," said Malfoy, his voice trembling slightly.

"You're not telling me you're changing your mind," said Harry through gritted teeth. "He's not you, and you can—"

"No, I can't," bellowed Malfoy. "Can't you understand? Without me he'll stay alive! I'm the curse, there's no other way!"

"We can still find a way," shouted Harry. "There's always a way!"

"Well, maybe you should get this through your thick skull, but not everything in life can go according to your wishes!"

"Why are you suddenly scared?" Harry gripped Malfoy's shoulders and shook them. "Why?"

Malfoy looked ashen, his mouth pinched and his face so pale it was almost invisible. "If we fail, he'll die. And I will, too. There will be no Draco Malfoy or Ian Raines. I won't exist anymore—in any shape or form, Potter."

Harry opened his mouth only to close it again. It was as if a bottomless hole was opening in his stomach, and it was heavy, cold, _painful_. The realisation smacked him in the face, making it hard to breathe. Because—because Malfoy wouldn't be here if they failed.

Malfoy reached up, his cold knuckles brushing against Harry's cheek. He stared into Harry's eyes, and there was something that told Harry that Malfoy realised something, saw something in Harry. Malfoy dropped his hand, a sad, knowing smile on his lips. "Let me go, Potter."

Before Harry could, however, there was a cold wind and suddenly Malfoy was standing a short distance away from him.

"Perhaps you should learn more about Ian Raines," said Malfoy. "Perhaps he isn't that bad."

"No one is worse than you," Harry said, attempting a smile to no avail. "But no one is easier to hate than Raines."

Malfoy laughed. "I thought you hated me. I should be offended that Raines has stolen that privilege."

"I hated you. Still do," said Harry. "Will hate you more if you disappear."

"We can't let that happen now, can we?" Malfoy said with a smile. A moment later, that smile faded away. He kept his eyes on the empty orphanage garden. "Ian Raines is me, Potter. You'll come around one day."

"No," said Harry, shaking his head. "No."

Malfoy merely gazed at him for a while before he shook his head as well. Harry tried to avoid that stare, blinking just to get his bearings again. Yet when he opened his eyes once more, Malfoy had disappeared.

**. .**

**. .**

A week after Malfoy left him, Harry was back in Callington. He couldn't bring himself to meet Malfoy—not after he was clearly told to learn liking Raines. Hence now he found himself waiting in front of the orphanage gate, unsure of what the hell he was actually _waiting_ for.

Occasionally he could see some kids running around the building, some of them looking at him strangely. But Raines wasn't there, and Harry had no intention to actually ask for him. He didn't even want to meet him. Yet he came anyway.

It was nearly dusk when Harry saw the front door open with Monica tugging at Leah's sweater sleeve. Seeing Harry, Leah frowned. Monica pointed at him, whispering something to Leah. Harry fidgeted on his feet, not knowing what to say in case Leah asked him what he was doing there. As expected, Leah ushered Monica to go inside, and she smiled faintly at Harry afterwards. Harry tried to return the smile, but he could only manage a grimace.

"Are you looking for Ian?" Leah asked when she arrived at the gate.

"Er, I only stopped by because I had things to do around here . . ."

The way Leah raised her eyebrows told Harry that she could see through his lie.

"He's not coming today, but I see you've noticed," said Leah. "Today is Leon's turn."

Harry recalled that he did indeed see a dark-haired bloke filing inside the orphanage right after he Apparated. "I see," he said hesitantly. "It's all right, I'm not really—"

"He doesn't live very far," Leah cut in, watching him intently. "I can give you directions if you want."

Harry opened and closed his mouth, at a loss. "Er . . . is that all right?"

"Yeah, he won't mind," said Leah, shrugging. When Harry opened his mouth again to counter, Leah raised her hand. "You have to talk to him."

"Talk to him about what?" asked Harry, baffled.

"About him, obviously," Leah stated matter-of-factly. "Now, you see that house with the red car parked in front of it? Take the left turn right after it, and just go straight until you see a blue gate. Ian lives there—room number three."

"I—okay," Harry replied uncertainly. "Thanks for the—uh—directions."

"You're welcome." Leah smiled before pausing for a moment. She stared at Harry. "You have to understand that he's afraid."

"Of what?"

"Of himself. Of the things he doesn't know," said Leah softly. "He's not really that strong."

"He doesn't look like he gives a rat's arse about anything," said Harry. "He doesn't look like he needs me to talk to him."

"Perhaps he doesn't, but you'll do it anyway, won't you?" Leah said. "It's better if he's the one who tells you everything. It's just not my place to do that, you know?"

"Yeah, maybe," Harry agreed reluctantly. There was a long pause before he sighed and said, "I'll go then."

"See that you do." Leah smiled again. "Tell Ian not to be late tomorrow, will you?"

"Will do." Harry nodded.

He walked down the pavement until he saw a junction near the red car, taking the left turn and searching for a blue gate. Just as Leah said, it didn't take him long to find it. Harry stared for a moment, having difficulties believing Malfoy—Raines could live in a place as small and run-down as this.

He slipped through the gate and climbed the short flight of stairs. Room number three was the last one on the left. The door was made out of a thin panel of plywood, and the wall was painted white—although it had peeled off here and there. Harry swallowed, and then knocked.

There was a heavy silence while Harry waited for Raines to open the door. His heart was in his throat, his palms sweating. He didn't even know what the bloody hell he should talk to Raines about. But every time he remembered the way Malfoy gazed at him, brushing his knuckles against Harry's cheek . . . it made Harry's stomach twist unpleasantly. It reminded him too much of the fact that Malfoy was . . .

"Well, well, what have we got here?"

The drawl coming from behind him made Harry jump in expectation. He whirled around hoping to see Malfoy, only to find Raines leaning sideways against the wall, eyeing Harry sceptically. His hands were in his grey trench coat pockets, the white jumper he wore underneath making his throat look paler than usual.

"Hi," Harry greeted tentatively. "Leah told me . . ."

"Sure, sure. There's no one else who would tell you my address." Raines shrugged. He headed to the door, brushing against Harry's right shoulder in the process. "Want to come in?" he asked, unlocking the door.

"Yeah, thanks." Harry breathed a sigh of relief at the invitation, following Raines' lead inside. He took a moment to adjust his eyes to the darkness, and was awed by what he saw.

"Feel free to sit anywhere you like," said Raines, turning on the lamp. The yellow light made everything clearer. Harry walked slowly across the narrow hallway, all the while taking in his surroundings.

It wasn't empty or dirty like one would think from seeing the front door. The furniture was old but not bespoke as at Malfoy Manor, though it was actually nice. It made Harry think of 'home', even though neither Grimmauld Place nor Hogwarts—let alone Privet Drive—had the same style. It was just like the home he had always envisioned, the one he thought every family should have. A pair of warm brown sofas, with a beige rug placed near the hearth. Some handmade cards were pinned on the white board above the hearth—no doubt presents from the orphan children. There was a photograph displayed on top of a small table that separated the living room and the kitchen. Harry walked towards it.

"You're not here," Harry pointed out, examining the photograph closely. It showed Leah and the children in front of the orphanage building, smiling widely. Two other young blokes were there—Leon was one of them, Harry guessed. An old man with round belly that reminded Harry of Slughorn was on his knees, laughing and hugging two little girls.

"I wasn't there when it was taken."

"But you said you've been in the orphanage all your life."

"Well, it's true," said Raines. Harry looked up, finding Raines' eyes trained on him. "You know that's true."

"What do you mean?"

Raines laughed without humour, throwing himself onto one of the sofas. He seemed to remember about his coat, so he grumbled, wriggling himself out of the thick material. "Come now, Harry Potter. Don't pretend you don't think of me as that boyfriend of yours," he said, hooking his coat over the back of the sofa.

"How many times do I have to say that he's not my boyfriend?"

"The man you like then."

Harry stared, his heart sounding noisy in his ears. "What do you know?"

"What do I know?" Raines twirled his forefinger in the air lazily. "What I do know is that I woke up nine months ago without any memories. That I almost died because apparently I didn't bloody know anything—even the simplest thing. I didn't even know how to turn the hot and cold taps on. Odd, don't you think?" Raines searched Harry's eyes, waiting for something Harry didn't know. He laughed wryly. "Of course you don't think that's odd. I might be a fucking noble for all I know, not knowing how to cook or sweep the floor."

"You're—" Harry licked his lips, uncertain of what he should say. "What happened then?" he settled with that in the end.

"I collapsed from hunger." Raines shrugged. "It was near the orphanage, so I was lucky. The head of the orphanage—that is Old Man William—took me in. He even let me use this flat."

"Have you learnt everything then? You can cook now?" asked Harry, even though the thing he wanted to ask wasn't anywhere near that question.

"No, I eat at the orphanage four times a week, and I work part time three times a week in a café. So I eat there, too."

"You're working in a café . . ." Harry couldn't quite hide his disbelief. Somehow the image of the Malfoy he knew was slipping away faster and faster. Raines was not Malfoy despite the fact that sometimes Harry could still see and hear the old Malfoy in him. But even those little things were going to vanish if Harry kept on talking with this new person. And Harry hated that.

"Tell me, Harry Potter," Raines said slowly. "Who am I?"

Harry remained passive, couldn't even blink his eyes.

"Who are you?" Raines continued, "What are you to me?"

"You're—I—" Harry stuttered, taking a step back and sensing a knot twisting where his heart should be. He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. "We were schoolmates."

But _God_, that sounded so wrong. He never knew this person. Never.

"Schoolmates? Is that all?" asked Raines, incredulous. "Where was our school then?"

"It was in—in—Scotland," Harry managed to say before he shook his head. "This is ridiculous."

"What is?" asked Raines, his voice raised an octave higher. "I'm asking you about my past, and you're clearly _attached_ to my past. What's so ridiculous?"

"It's ridiculous because you're not him," said Harry tightly. "No matter what you do, you're still not him."

"Then what do you want from me?" shouted Raines, standing up and marching towards Harry. "I don't remember a fucking thing, what do you expect from me?"

"Who said I was expecting anything from you?"

Raines gripped the collar of Harry's coat, nearly suffocating him. They glared at each other, Harry refused to back down even when his lungs started to hurt from the lack of oxygen. Eventually Raines released him, causing Harry to stumble backward and cough.

"What are you doing here? Go on then. Leave. You know where the door is," said Raines spitefully.

Harry shot him another seething glare, and wasted no time in leaving the flat. It was only when he was already walking furiously down the pavement, red leaves crunching beneath his trainers, that Harry admitted he was being unfair to Raines. But he didn't want to be fair. Why should he? He was sick of being a hero, so sick of always having to play the right card for the world's convenience.

Yet why was being selfish so painful?

**. .**

**. .**

Harry stood before the main bedchamber of Malfoy Manor, where he knew for sure Malfoy was brooding. It had been like that for months ever since he found out about his mother's diary—Harry doubted it would change only because he hadn't come here for almost a month.

"Don't stand there like an idiot, Potter, just come in," Malfoy's voice came from behind the door, sounding so far away. Harry sighed in resignation. He pulled himself together and turned the doorknob.

"Hi," he said uneasily.

"Well, hello there," drawled Malfoy. "What brings the Golden Boy to our humble Manor?"

"Stop it, Malfoy." Harry scowled. Malfoy eyed him sceptically from where he was perched on the bed.

"I thought you had stopped coming here for good," said Malfoy nonchalantly, although his posture was stiffer than usual. "Busy saving the world maybe."

"You can't get rid of me that easily." Harry rolled his eyes for show, ambling along the carpeted floor and stopping next to Malfoy. He flopped down on the bed ungracefully. "Did you do anything at all while I wasn't here?"

"Of course, who do you think I am?" Malfoy feigned a hurtful look. "I did my best to haunt this Manor."

"Ha-ha, how productive of you," said Harry sarcastically.

Malfoy shrugged his shoulders and they fell into a long silence. Harry glanced at him sideways, noting all the little things he never thought as important before. The way Malfoy's hair curled at the nape, and how his pores were more visible around his upper cheeks. Harry wanted to run his fingers there, to sense if his skin was as smooth as it looked. The way Malfoy's lips pouted slightly, the way his Adam's apple bobbed as though he could still swallow—or maybe he could, Harry never asked. Harry sighed in frustration when he realised what he was doing.

"Do you like children?" he asked out of nowhere.

"Children?" asked Malfoy, sounding puzzled. "Not really, I don't know what to do with them. Why?"

Harry took a moment before he blurted out in one breath, "Raines likes them."

Harry could feel Malfoy's gaze roaming on his right cheek, but he refused to stare back. "I see," said Malfoy eventually.

"There's this girl—Monica. I think he likes her the most. He was kind of mad at me when I asked if something had happened to her. He said not all orphans had tragic pasts." Harry laughed. "I didn't realise that—I shamelessly assumed all of them had pasts like me."

Malfoy didn't say anything, so Harry continued, "You know, he snapped at me when I said he couldn't be you no matter what he did."

"You told him about me?"

"No, but he guessed." Harry took a shuddering breath, squeezing his hands together. "He isn't as apathetic as I thought he was."

"You understand about him now?" asked Malfoy, more softly than Harry would have liked. Harry nodded reluctantly.

"Not that I want to understand him. But he might not be as happy as he looked."

"Potter." Malfoy laughed, shaking his head. "You're being ludicrous. He'll be happier this way, trust me."

"Because he's alive? Because he doesn't have the Dark Mark?" Harry snapped, facing Malfoy. Their foreheads almost bumped together. "Because he's not Draco Malfoy?" Harry's voice turned softer, sadder. He shifted his eyes to watch Malfoy's lips.

"Because—" Malfoy swiped his tongue over his lips, and although there wasn't any saliva that could make them wet, Harry found himself transfixed by the view. "Potter—"

"I can learn to accept him if you want me to," Harry relented, slowly lifting his gaze to rest on Malfoy's eyes. Malfoy compressed his lips. "But you're different. Don't stop me from trying to—"

"All right, that's enough," said Malfoy harshly, pushing Harry's shoulders away. He rose to his feet, looking anywhere but at Harry. "It's nice to know that you've made friends with Raines. Maybe you could start brushing your hair together."

"It's not that I made friends with him," Harry retorted, annoyed. "I said I could _learn_ to accept him."

"Well, you needn't accept him, do you?" snapped Malfoy. "Why should you?"

"Because _you_ want me to acknowledge him as you! Don't you understand, I can't see him as you, but I'll try to—"

"It's not what _I_ want," shouted Malfoy. When Harry only glared at him in return, his breathing ragged, Malfoy ran his fingers through his transparent fringe. "That's not what I meant," he finally said, this time more softly, but his voice layered with emotion. "It's not important what I want. The question is, why do you feel like you should do it for me?"

"I just want to," Harry replied stubbornly.

"Well, why?"

"Just because." Harry sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I felt like—I felt like shit when I told Raines he couldn't be you."

"Guilt, Potter?" Malfoy sneered. "How very noble of you. As expected from the Golden Boy."

"It has nothing to do with it," said Harry, more calmly than he suspected he would be. "And I could try accepting him as Raines, that's all. A new person, just like you said. As long as you're still here . . ."

"What?" Malfoy widened his eyes in alarm. "What do you mean?"

"As long as you're still here, in this Manor, you're still Draco Malfoy," finished Harry.

"Potter, get a grip," Malfoy groaned, sounding completely exasperated. "I'm not human, you should—I don't know, make friends with _humans_!"

"You know I've never been good at following orders."

"That's not an order!"

"So was that a request?" Harry stared straight into Malfoy's panicked eyes. "I can decline then."

"Merlin!" Malfoy threw his arms in the air exaggeratedly. "Hopeless. _Hopeless._"

"Whatever you say, Malfoy. Whatever you say," said Harry, shrugging. They glared at each other for a long, heavy minute, before Malfoy closed his eyes in defeat.

"You'll understand someday that I'm not the Draco Malfoy you want."

Harry didn't answer, but, to be honest, he had wanted to snort at that. However, Malfoy's tone when he spoke again pulled Harry back from his thoughts.

"Promise me you'll try this, Potter. I don't care if you only see him as Ian Raines. I don't care if that means you don't treat him like you treat me. Just—just try to like him."

Harry stared. "Er . . . why should I like him?"

"Because you can't afford to like _me_," said Malfoy sharply, his tone and expression leaving no room for argument. Harry opened his mouth, at a loss for words.

"_What_?"

"Oh, shut it, I'm not daft. I can see it all over your face."

"But—"

"Just do it. Promise."

"Malfoy, I—"

"Potter," said Malfoy, holding Harry's gaze. "Promise me."

Harry wanted to scream. He wanted to push Malfoy against the wall and beat the shit out of him. He needed to release all of this pent-up frustration, otherwise he would explode. But on top of it all, he needed to hold Malfoy, telling him that no, Harry wouldn't change his mind, and yes, Harry would always choose Malfoy over Raines. It didn't matter that he wasn't human, it didn't matter at all.

But instead, watching Malfoy watch him with those eyes, Harry caved in. "Yeah, okay. Promise." Because he couldn't deny that Malfoy was also right.

"Good." Malfoy straightened even more, as though it was still possible for him to appear more formal. He sent a small smile, clearly a forced one that made Harry long to kiss it away. "Then I'm going to—have a walk." He seemed to have another thought and added, "Are you coming?"

"To the garden? Watching the balding trees?"

"Balding trees have their own beauty, don't be a prat, Potter," Malfoy chided. He vanished after saying, "Meet you there."

Harry put his head in his hands, sighing in frustration. Malfoy knew Harry liked him, and wasn't keen on the idea. But that was so unfair—to ask him to like Raines . . .

"I'm so, _so_, fucked up," he groaned, falling backwards onto the bed. It creaked a little, the soft mattress wobbling beneath him. The bed must have cost a fortune—the Malfoys only used the finest after all, just as Malfoy always put it. Harry let his thoughts wander incoherently while the mattress lulled him in gentle waves, until a soft 'thud' jerked his attention back to Earth. He sat straight back, furrowing his brow.

Standing up, his Auror instinct screamed at him. Not that he could trust that instinct after repeatedly messing up missions, and not that his instinct was any better in the war. Hating Snape and trusting the fake Moody were only a few examples that he was pants at relying on instincts. Like Snape had always said, Harry's arrogance blinded him. But Harry had learnt a lot, and not the easy way. And besides, it wouldn't hurt to check where the sound came from, right? The worst that could happen was only—well, a furious Malfoy who would wait too long in the garden.

With that thought, Harry took out his wand and muttered a spell. If anything had moved in the last three minutes, it would be engulfed in a blue light. Sweeping his gaze over the room, the only things basked in blue light were the bed and Harry. Oh, but there was a part where the light was uneven, as if there was something extra on the carpet, beneath the bed's headboard. Harry crept towards it, crouching and peeking through the crack between the back of the bed and the wall. And yes, there was indeed _something_. Harry whispered _Lumos. _

It was square-shaped, like a book, bundled in a white fabric. It seemed that it was stuck there, at the back of the bed with a Sticking Charm. Checking for a curse, Harry wished he had asked Hermione to teach him a few more advanced spells. But so far there were no signs of curses, thus Harry began to extract it from the bed. He Levitated it carefully, noting the rose embroidery on the fabric. Harry was sure it was Narcissa Malfoy's.

He flicked his wand and the fabric unveiled a wooden box at once. It had something intricate with a big letter M crafted on the lid—Harry guessed it was the Malfoy family crest. "_Sanctimonia Vincet Semper_," Harry read the smaller letters that were placed below the big M, and was surprised to find the box glowing. He quickly tried to unlock it with _Alohomora_ and more intermediate unlocking charms, but nothing happened. Harry had nearly given up, when he remembered that the box responded to his voice earlier.

"Password protected?" Harry wanted to groan. How could he guess Mrs Malfoy's password when he barely knew her?

"Rose," Harry tried, simply because it was the flower embroidered on the white fabric. And judging from the Malfoy's garden and her diary's scent, Mrs Malfoy seemed to be fond of flowers. "Honeysuckle. Lily. Erm . . . Narcissa." Nothing happened—Harry racked his brain for more flower names, but he was blank. "Daisy. Jasmine . . . oh fuck."

Sighing, Harry made a move to cover the box with the fabric again. Maybe he should just take it home and find a book that had a complete list of flower names. However, he paused and thought—if it was something Mrs Malfoy loved, there must be no other thing more suitable than this. He sat back, watching the green glow around the box. "Draco Lucius Malfoy," he whispered. A soft click echoed in the air.

Harry wanted to cheer in accomplishment, but he bit his lower lip instead. Rushing to open the lid, Harry found inside a folded map, a romance novel and a sheet of paper. He reached for the paper and frowned. It was the torn page of Mrs Malfoy's diary. Straightening its surface, curiosity ate him up. Its content, however, made his stomach lurch in protest.

"Oh God. Oh fuck. Oh bloody fuck." Harry put a hand over his mouth, certain that the colour must have fled from his face. "Malfoy . . ." he said shakily. This couldn't be—but Mrs Malfoy had proven that she had no qualm in doing something similar before. But if Malfoy knew—

Putting it back inside the box, Harry swallowed the bile forming in his throat and shut his eyes for a moment. He willed his heartbeat to slow down and the food to stay in his stomach. Opening his eyes again, he reached for the map.

It looked like an ordinary map of Great Britain, but on a closer inspection, Harry could see glints of green on some cities. Harry skimmed all the green marked cities and his eyes fell on Callington, marked with blue. It was the same blue mark he had seen in the last illegal drugs case he had with Ron. But what was the similarity between Callington and the other cities? Why were they marked, and why did Mrs Malfoy choose Callington out of the others?

Deciding he would need time—and maybe help—to solve that one, Harry shoved it back to the box and eyed the romance novel. That one was the weirdest thing in the box. Harry resolved that there would be nothing wrong in checking it, too, later. He set it back inside the box and worked on sealing it again. He shrunk the bundle, and then hid it inside his robe pocket. At the same time Malfoy flew through the door, scowling.

"What's taking you so long, Potter?"

Harry quickly straightened up, praying that his expression would be blank enough not to arouse Malfoy's suspicion. "I was—er—a bit light-headed," he lied.

Malfoy studied him for what seemed a very long minute. "You do look a little pale," he conceded at last.

"Yeah, but I'm fine now." Harry quickly assured him, pressing his fingers on top of his robe pocket nervously. "Let's go to the garden."

"If you think—" Malfoy hesitated. ". . . it isn't because of what I said, is it?"

"What—oh, no," said Harry, shaking his head a little bit too fast. "I was just . . ." Harry let it hang, staring at Malfoy's worried face. "Hey, come on."

Malfoy shrugged, his eyes never leaving Harry. "Right."

"Great," said Harry.

Before Malfoy could say anything in answer, Harry brushed past him, opening the door. When he turned back again, Malfoy had already disappeared.

**. .**

**To Be Continued**

**.** **.**

Thank you for reading! Please look forward to the next chapter. :D


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